Thorn and Misery
by Miss Maddie
Summary: After Murtagh is kidnapped and taken to Uru'baen, he is not seen until the end of Eldest. This is my take on how he became the Empire's Rider and Galbatorix's slave. Major adjustments in progress - I'm hoping to get it Inheritance-compliant.
1. Chapter 1

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 1

**A/N:** You have no idea how ecstatic I am right now. Really, it's beyond words. After over a year of being locked out of my FF account for a reason no one would explain, being unable to post new stories, add chapters or edit existing ones, creating another account and having that ALSO not work, I am FINALLY back. Is it too much to hope that some of my lovely readers are still out there? Is it too, too much to hope that they aren't waiting to burn me at the stake for going AWOL?

In celebration of my return, this story will be undergoing a MAJOR overhaul. I'll be doing some edits after having read Inheritance (which was spectacular, by the way). Some of it is just little details, some of it is not so little. I've been working on it for quite a while, ever since I finished the book, but it will take some time for me to get everything up to speed. For that, I ask that you all bear with me just a little longer. I'd love to end up completely Inheritance-compliant, even though I know its going to be a huge job. I suppose that's what I get for starting a story like this before all the books were out. Anyone who has already read this will find things to be quite different, and, with any luck, better.

- Miss Maddie

* * *

Murtagh swept his dark, matted hair out of his face, sweating profusely. He was exhausted, but still he hurried on, following close behind Ajihad and his guards. The footsteps of the twenty soldiers reverberated around the stone corridor, resounding in Murtagh's ears. His laboured breathing was short and swift; his head ached fiercely.

The tunnel was lit only with torches, stuck in roughly hewn niches in the walls. Shadows danced along the wide expanse of stone, running ever on, never seeming to tire.

Murtagh wished they would stop mocking him.

He was gasping with effort and clutching a stitch in his side, but Murtagh knew stopping to rest would serve no purpose. Staring resolutely at pounding feet of the man in front of him, he tried to forget his fatigue.

The men's heavy breathing was drowned out only by that of the dwarves, whose stout, solid figures made them ill-suited for running such long distances. Despite their lack of speed, the dwarves' knowledge of the vast configuration of tunnels hidden beneath the immense Beor Mountains was essential for the completion of their task.

Their party had neither slept nor eaten a proper meal in the three days since they had departed Tronjheim, the great city-mountain that was the proud stronghold of the dwarves. They had taken only brief respites over the course of the journey, to catch their breath and gulp thirstily at their water flasks. That was why only the hardiest soldiers had been selected to take part in the arduous mission. The Varden's leader had driven his warriors to the brink of collapse, but it was only to do what was necessary to expunge the last of the Urgals from Farthen Dur.

Murtagh was now reasonably sure that Ajihad finally trusted him. As the son of Morzan, the evil King Galbatorix's greatest ally, Murtagh was met with distrust, even hatred, everywhere he went in Tronjheim. That Ajihad had forced him to reside in a locked cell at the bottom of the city was as much for Murtagh's protection as everyone else's.

On the eve of battle, however, Ajihad had visited Murtagh in his cell and offered him the chance to redeem himself by fighting alongside the Varden against Galbatorix's forces. Murtagh had accepted, and had been a great asset to the Varden in the fight under Farthen Dur.

Eager to further prove that he meant the Varden no harm, Murtagh had volunteered to help search Farthen Dur and the surrounding tunnels for any Urgals that may have lingered after the great battle that had raged under the mountain. After being clouted by an Urgal on his first trip, Murtagh had been sent back to Tronjhiem to recover, but had returned once the healers had deemed him reasonably fit. He had joined the equal force of men and dwarves had been ceaselessly searching the endless maze of tunnels and caverns that the dwarves had built to shelter their race and confuse their enemies. They had finished their task now, and the last of the Urgals had either been killed or had fled the passageways.

Only the Twins still regarded Murtagh with disdain. Both of the Varden's cruel, nameless sorcerers had glanced at him with odd expressions on their harsh, identical faces many times over the course of their journey. Murtagh heard they had offered their magical assistance during the fight, but still he did not trust them.

As the contingent of soldiers ran ever on through endless maze of tunnels, Murtagh pondered the immense battle. He had killed many Urgals, the creatures that were closer kin to beasts than to men, until that strange moment when the warring Urgal clans had suddenly stopped fighting and turned on each other. It was almost as though they had been released from the spell of their leader, the Shade, Durza.

It was his friend Eragon, the Dragon Rider, his dragon, Saphira, and the elf-maiden, Arya, who had killed Durza, and so had ended the battle. For three days, the people of the Varden had been calling Eragon 'Shadeslayer', and treating him with heightened respect. Even Ajihad's second-in-command, Jormundur, bowed low before Eragon whenever they crossed paths. To Murtagh, it all seemed like too much, but the fighting was over because of Eragon, and for that he was grateful.

Nothing pleased Murtagh more than to stop fighting, for when he was engaged in battle a sick, feral joy took over him, making him feel as if he were someone else entirely. It made Murtagh disturbingly happy to sheath his sword in his enemies, to feel the hot sting of their blood when it touched his skin. No sound was more pleasing to him than the resonant clang of steel against steel, blade against blade. It unnerved Murtagh greatly, though he did not know the cause of it.

As the group rounded the last bend and the end of the tunnel came into view, the men turned and helped their stout companions over a waist-high ledge, much to the dwarves' chagrin. Ajihad then raised a hand and the group formed two straight lines. Their task completed, the triumphant warriors re-entered Farthen Dur.

They had gone but a few paces when there was a flurry of movement behind them. Murtagh turned, and to his astonishment, saw a great host of Urgals advancing upon them, wielding their great axes with grim purpose. Some of the warriors moved as if to turn away from the oncoming Urgals, but quailed under Ajihad's menacing glare.

"Hold your positions!" Ajihad barked. His thickly accented voice was fierce and commanding. "We protect the Varden first!"

The men nodded, heartened, and raised their weapons.

Drawing his hand-and-a-half sword in a single fluid motion, Murtagh felt his other, battle-loving self take over his body as the day's exhaustion left him. His savage fury heightened his senses, and he set upon the first Urgal that approached him, gutting the monster with a flash of scarlet and silver. The Urgal fell, but was instantly replaced with another. Murtagh knew none of what was going on around him, intent only on slaughtering his enemies. He heard the screams of his companions, but they were drowned out by the swinging of his sword and the sickening crunch as he slew yet another Urgal.

Suddenly, there was a blinding flash of violet light, and one of the Twins severed an Urgal's arm. The monster screamed in agony and crumpled, clutching the bloody stump.

While Murtagh was fending off two Urgals at once, a third attacked him from behind. He heard the Urgal's heavy footfalls and turned, but he was a hair two slow, and the Urgal succeeded in landing a long cut along Murtagh's sword arm. The monster's stout blade bit through the leather bracer, leaving a long gash from his wrist to the crook of his elbow. The cut was shallow, but painful and awkwardly placed, hindering the movement in his arm. Smoothly switching his hand-and-a-half sword to his left hand, Murtagh gutted the Urgal before it could attack him again. It fell to the ground with a muted thump.

Then, without warning, there was an eerie lull in the fighting. A strange, pearly mist had settled around them with a speed so incredible that Murtagh knew it had to have come from magic. He had not known the Urgals possessed any type of sorcery.

The glistening fog cleared as quickly as it had arrived, throwing the battlefield into painfully sharp relief. Glancing around, Murtagh saw with horror that he, the Twins and Ajihad were the only members of their twenty-man fighting force still alive. Murtagh's fallen comrades lay everywhere, their mangled bodies tossed carelessly aside to make way for the angry horde of Urgals.

Looking towards Ajihad, Murtagh saw that the Varden's leader was losing his battle. Five slain Urgals lay around him, but Ajihad's muscled body was rent with countless wounds that bled heavily through his armour. Murtagh rushed to help him, but before he could get there, an enormous Kull, closer to nine feet than eight, stepped forward. It kicked aside a fallen body and lunged at Ajihad, slashed him across the chest with a cold glint in its black eyes.

As Ajihad fell with a pained groan, Murtagh felt a reckless hatred surge through him. Slaughtering three Urgals in quick succession, he raced towards the Kull. Raising his sword to attack, Murtagh was surprised to see that the Kull did not attempt to defend itself. Instead, it bared its pointed teeth in a cruel imitation of a smile. Murtagh had no time to ponder the Kull's strange actions before something very hard slammed into the back of his head. There was a flash of intense pain that settled into a pounding ache. Lights popped before his eyes and his head swam, his vision sliding in and out of focus. Murtagh fell, but the Kull caught him before he hit the ground. It scooped Murtagh's limp form up into its arms. Murtagh saw the blurry outline of an Urgal raise its arm in signal, and the throng of Urgals retreated with amazing speed back through the tunnel from which they had emerged.

Murtagh wished he had remembered to say goodbye to Eragon before entering the tunnels of Farthen Dur.

His vision cleared for a moment and he looked back towards the cavernous opening under the mountain. It seemed the whole of the Varden was running with all the speed it could muster towards its fallen leader. At the head of the pack were Eragon and Saphira. Arya ran under them, her long black hair fanned out behind her, keeping almost exact pace. But they were to be too late. The group of Urgals was too far away now, the tunnel entrance becoming no more than a minute speck of light.

Then the pain in Murtagh's head took him over, and he slipped into a blissful state of unconsciousness to the steady rhythm of the Kull's pounding feet.

After several hours' hard running, the contingent of Urgals came to halt before a broad gorge, still encased in the tunnels of Farthen Dur. They waited there for a few moments before two tall, robe-clad figures dismounted from identical black warhorses and stepped forward.

The Twins strode to where the Kull carrying Murtagh stood. They inspected the body silently, seeming pleased, until one of the Twins discovered the bloody knot at the base of Murtagh's skull where the Urgal had clubbed him.

"Idiot," he hissed angrily. "Are you so dull-witted that you lack the capacity to follow simple orders? King Galbatorix wants him alive, and _unharmed_." He motioned to the lump on Murtagh's head. "I suppose brute force is all your race is capable of." The man glared at the nine-foot–tall Kull, scorn carving deep lines in his face. The war-hardened monster quailed under his imposing stare.

The second Twin appraised the Kull. "You should consider yourself very fortunate that this is the extent of his injuries. If he had been hit any harder he would have been killed, and all our necks would have been on the line. Give him to us."

Within a few moments the Twins had removed the knot and healed the other small injuries Murtagh had received during the battle, including the long, shallow scratch on his arm. Releasing Murtagh into a bewitched sleep, they removed his armour and weapons. One of the Twins lashed it to his horse's back while the other placed Murtagh's bloodstained shirt at the edge of the crevice. They then removed their own robes, placing them next to the shirt.

"A moment, brother," whispered one of the Twins. Raising a hand over Murtagh's limp form, he said, "Waise skolíro fra draumr kópa!"

The other Twin nodded in satisfaction. The Varden's mages could scry all they wanted now – there was naught for it. The Twins' spell would protect Murtagh from all kinds of magical observation.

Summoning their strength, they then conjured a sturdy bridge that spanned the width of the gorge. The Urgals crossed it in silence, their heavy feet pounding the dry, cracked wood of the bridge.

The Twins mounted their horses and crossed after the Urgals, all the while glancing over their thin shoulders as if they thought they were being followed. They knew the Varden would not take the loss of their leader lightly. The rebels would be after them soon. With the dwarves' knowledge of the tunnels, the Varden could overtake them in mere hours if they were not careful. It would be some time yet before they reached their destination, and while they were still inside the underground tunnels of the Beor Mountains, their party was in danger.

The Twins looked back for a moment, and with a snap of their fingers the bridge dissolved into nothingness.

* * *

A/N: As you can see, I tacked what was once Chapter 2 onto the end. I just didn't think it was long enough to merit being its own chapter. That's happened quite a bit with my edits. The story will end up having fewer chapters, but the content will be the same.

- Miss Maddie


	2. Chapter 2

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 2

It was Murtagh's hunger that finally awoke him. He rose slowly off the soft bed, surprised to find that he was not dirty, tired or in pain. His only discomfort was a dull ache at the base of his skull, which disappeared within seconds as the remnants of Murtagh's profound sleep left him.

A tray laden with fruit and rolls and a pitcher of ice water sat on the nightstand. Sniffing them warily, Murtagh found no traces of drugs. He bit into a roll studded with dried fruit and nuts, surveying his surroundings.

He was in a small, simple bedchamber. A wooden writing desk stood against one whitewashed wall opposite the four-poster bed, beside a shelf filled with books and scrolls. It all seemed strangely familiar to Murtagh.

A weapons rack lay beside a set of large double doors, upon which were Murtagh's hand-and-a-half sword, horn, yew bow and quiver and his dagger, Drac'ner.

The dagger had once belonged to his faithful teacher, Tornac. The night they had fled the city and Tornac had been killed, Murtagh had taken his dagger from his corpse. It now served as a memento of his friend's sacrifice. Strange, though – he didn't remember having the dagger with him during the scourge of the tunnels.

Then, with a sinking feeling in his stomach, Murtagh realized where he must be. It was in these very rooms that he had spent most of his childhood, avoiding King Galbatorix and his courts. Tornac had taught him to read and write at that desk. He had spent too many sleepless nights in the bed on which he now sat. He had returned to Castle Ilirea, the citadel at Uru'baen.

Feeling faintly nauseated, Murtagh rose and started to pace the room. He could not believe that after such a long time spent running from the Empire he had be forced to return.

A pair of cotton breeches and a shirt was laid out at the foot of the bed. Needing to do something physical, Murtagh dressed, but his mind was not in the task.

Murtagh stood and walked through the door that led into the rest of the suite. He found himself in a cramped, utilitarian sitting room, furnished only with a few chairs and a stout wooden table. As he made to sink into one of the cushioned chairs, he heard a knock at the door.

A serving-woman in a dark grey dress and white apron stamped with a tongue of scarlet flame stood outside. She smiled and curtsied when Murtagh opened the door.

"Excuse me, sir, but His Imperial Majesty King Galbatorix bids you to come to the greater throne room," she said politely. "If you would follow me."

"I know where the throne room is," Murtagh replied icily. He was in no mood to be polite to anyone, particularly not someone who served Galbatorix. "I'll be along later."

"I'm sorry, sir, but His Majesty was very insistent," the woman said, surprised by the malice in Murtagh's voice. "He expects you in the throne room immediately."

"Fine," said Murtagh, becoming annoyed. He ducked back into his suite and slid Drac'ner into his right boot.

The woman led Murtagh through the dark and sickeningly familiar halls. After many twists and turns, they came to a great set of double doors. A towering, life-sized oak tree divided the circular scene into four sections. Each section, wrought of pure gold, depicted one of the races of Algaesia: elves, men, Urgals and dwarves. Among the branches of the tree were more of the realm's sentient beings. At the forefront of the entire scene was a brilliant golden dragon, curled in a ring with its tail in its mouth. Murtagh had of course seen the doors before, but he was never less than awed by their beauty.

The great doors were unguarded, and swung inward of their own accord as Murtagh and the servant approach. The woman did not follow him, but curtsied low and fled.

Murtagh walked slowly into the throne room. He didn't need the double row of flameless lanterns that lit a path through the otherwise gloomy space, and kept his eyes on the floor. When he reached the dais at the head of the room, he froze, dreading what he knew he would find. He stared at the stone flags for as long as he could, but before long he felt an irresistible pressure forcing his gaze upwards. Slowly, Murtagh raised his head and looked upon the man he had hoped never to see again.

King Galbatorix had not aged a day since Murtagh had escaped Uru'baen. His hard, dark eyes were sunken deep into his lined face. His strong nose arched proudly over a thin mouth, which was framed with a neatly trimmed coal-black beard. Galbatorix looked to be no older than his mid-forties, though Murtagh knew that was not the case. A benign smile that belied his twisted nature played on his lips.

"Welcome back, Murtagh. You have returned to my beloved Uru'baen," the king said, casting his gaze downward. "I trust your voyage was comfortable?"

Murtagh said nothing.

"You have no doubt noticed that I have kept your old suite warm for you, against your return. I hope it is to your liking."

Again Murtagh kept silent.

The king sighed. "You have a grudge against me, I am sure. Will you not voice your complaints?" Galbatorix looked directly into Murtagh's eyes, and Murtagh felt a sharp finger of energy probe his consciousness. He threw up his mental barriers.

"I keep no quarrel with you, _Majesty,_" said Murtagh, spitting the word out with as much venom as he could muster.

"Do not be coy with your king, boy," said Galbatorix, gazing ever more intensely into Murtagh's calm grey eyes. "We both know what you are hiding from me. I have been informed that you recently found refuge among the Varden, and that you fought with them against my forces. Forgive me if I find this a trifle insulting."

Murtagh bristled at Galbatorix's soft, yet commanding voice. The words, which carried the slightest hint of an accent he couldn't quite place, slid like ice water through his veins. It was in this very fashion that Galbatorix had been able to bend Murtagh to his will during Murtagh's last stay in Uru'baen. Murtagh would not be pulled under in such a way again. He strengthened his mental wall against Galbatorix's intrusion.

Galbatorix sighed and spoke again, trying another tactic. "You must remember that I keep you in a private suite out of compassion, Murtagh. It does _me_ no discomfort to have you moved…elsewhere." A sly smile warped Galbatorix's mouth. "The soldiers in the dungeons will be delighted to see you, I'm sure. After all, you gave them such a kind parting gift when last you met."

Murtagh's thoughts flitted back to the night he and Tornac fled the capital. He had bribed a dungeon gatekeeper to leave a door open for them, but Galbatorix's soldiers had obviously been informed of his plan, and were lying in wait outside. Murtagh and Tornac had tried to fight their way out, killing several of the guards before Tornac had taken a dagger to the back. Murtagh had left the city alone that night.

"Why have you brought me here?" Murtagh demanded. He needed to keep talking, or he would lose his nerve entirely. "I'm of no use to you."

"Oh, but Murtagh, you are being modest!" exclaimed Galbatorix. "There was a time when you were anxious to be in my service. Not a year ago, you swore to me your undying fealty." He shook his head, smirking slightly. "The rebel leader had to be dispatched, of course, but in that I saw another opportunity. I assure you, you have the chance to be of great assistance to me. Your usefulness will be revealed in due time."

Glabatorix continued. "I must say I am very disappointed in you, Murtagh. I sheltered you for years, gave you every comfort you required. I even offered you the chance to rise by my side I created my new order, and how do you repay me? By running away and joining my enemies." The king smirked. "You have displeased me, and you will be punished."

Murtagh had had enough of the false king. "Your threats will not work on me, Galbatorix. I am much smarter now."

"As am I, Murtagh."

And then, without warning, a burst of immense power shot through Murtagh's defences, cleaving him from crown to soles. It shattered his mental walls like glass and continued into his mind, raking through all traces of thought. Murtagh roared in agony and sank to his knees. He couldn't even try to repel Galbatorix's attack, so great was the pain. Foolishly, desperately, Murtagh reached for his right boot, where Drac'ner was still stowed, but felt his muscles seize up in agony. He could not move.

The foreign probe delved deeper and deeper into his mind, ripping at his memories of his childhood, his youth and his flight to the Varden. Anything, everything, pulled out against his will. Galbatorix stole Murtagh's heart and made it his own, feeling every emotion that Murtagh himself had ever experienced. The king twisted and shredded through Murtagh's thoughts until every aspect of his being was laid bare for the world to see.

After what felt like a lifetime, Galbatorix found the thoughts that Murtagh kept most closely guarded: his memories of Eragon, Saphira and the Varden. Murtagh could feel the king's glee as his own as Galbatorix fervently examined the recollections.

Murtagh was now completely incapable of coherent thought. All he knew was pain, and the searing heat of fire. He could not move, he could not think, his head was reeling with the effect of torture beyond anything Murtagh had ever experienced.

And then, as quickly as it had come, the fire receded. The pain departed in a great rush, leaving Murtagh in the dark, now empty realm of his own consciousness. The silence deafened him. Murtagh was completely alone.

And yet, he was not alone. Galbatorix had shown him the very qualities he had ignored since leaving Uru'baen: his bitterness, his jealousy of Eragon, his fear of the Varden. His emotions had been revealed to him with a terrible finality. It was intensely disturbing, for Murtagh, to see the demons he had fought so hard to suppress shown to him so bluntly. He could not bear the reality, but neither could he deny it. Even inside his own mind, there could be no hiding from the truth.

Suddenly, there was a burst of bright, slightly surreal light inside Murtagh's head, and in a flood of agonizing realization, two small words rose from his innermost being and floated to his lips.

Galbatorix drew back from Murtagh's mind. He appraised his slumped, form with an icy eye. "Very well, Murtagh. You have left me much to ponder. You may return to your suite now, but come here one hour after the noon bell tomorrow. I have something to show you."

In a dazed voice Murtagh said, "Yes, your Majesty." He bowed slightly, then turned on his heel, strode out of the throne room and returned to his suite.

As he lay huddled, childlike, on the bed, silent tears carving glistening tracks along his tanned cheeks, Murtagh came to grips with the enormity of what Galbatorix had done to him. Galbatorix knew his true name. Murtagh was his prisoner forever.

* * *

A/N: I know this chapter is off, but this is one of the issues that will take a little longer to fix. I want the torture scene to be longer, more detailed, etc. but I'm in too good a mood right now to write about Murtagh getting the crap mentally beaten out of him. I'll expand this later, but for now it stays how it is.

- Miss Maddie


	3. Chapter 3

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 3

Murtagh lay in silence on his bed, in a place between sleeping and waking. His thoughts were a mixture of distant memories and waking dreams, but above all there was an overwhelming feeling of intrusion. Murtagh was filled with a mind that was not his own, as if there was a foreign energy inside him that observed and judged his every thought. He did not sleep that night.

Murtagh lay in this trance-like state for several hours before he realized that the sun was shining brightly through his still open window. He stood and stretched, his internal clock telling him it was already after noon. He entered the privy that was attached to his suite, drawing some icy water from the jug and splashing it on his face.

Feeling somewhat himself again, Murtagh sat down on one of the high-backed wooden chairs in the main room of his suite and contemplated what had transpired the day before. He knew his true name, but that was hardly a relief to him. The words carried with them an devastating sense of power, though they seemed volatile somehow. It was as if the knowledge of his true name could serve him or betray him at a single turn.

Then Murtagh felt the unfamiliar presence inside him flare. It tugged him forward and out of his rooms, down the dark, empty halls and back to the throne room. He strode into the hall, stopping at the black throne. Murtagh stopped and looked sullenly up at Galbatorix.

"Good morning, Murtagh," said the mad king, a mocking grimace twisting his face. "You slept well, I hope?"

"I'm sure you know the answer to that, Galbatorix," spat Murtagh.

Galbatorix tutted in an infuriatingly condescending manner, shaking his head. "You are impudent in the face of your king. I had hoped you would not forget your previous lesson, but it seems I was mistaken. You will bow before addressing me, if you please."

Murtagh remained perfectly still, glaring into Galbatorix's cruel black eyes.

"Before I die of old age, please, Murtagh," said Galbatorix, the ghost of a laugh behind his eyes. Galbatorix was a Dragon Rider, albeit a false one. His dragon, Shruikan, and his magic had brought to Galbatorix unnatural longevity. He was over a hundred years old, and in no danger of dying soon.

"I tire of this," said Galbatorix suddenly. "Bow to me!"

It was a direct order; Murgagh could not ignore it. He felt his spine curl as he was forced into a deep bow. Bolts of sharp pain raced along his back, tracing the long, knotted scar that ran from Murtagh's shoulder to his hip. The scar was a relic of one of his father Morzan's fits of rage – he had thrown his sword, Zar'roc, at him. Murtagh gritted his teeth and tried not to cry out.

Galbatorix held him in this position for several long moments before releasing him. "That's better," he said, smiling grimly.

Murtagh's eyes still burned with hate. "You may force me, Galbatorix, but know this: I will never follow you willingly. I fell for your childish tricks before, but now I know better. No fantasy of yours will be able to draw me in."

Galbatorix, for the first time that Murtagh had yet seen, descended from his gleaming black throne to stand beside him. Putting an almost fatherly arm around his shoulders, Galbatorix led him to one of the high windows beside the throne. This one faced the open fields that led away from Uru'baen, to the rest of the Empire. Atop the bluff on which the castle stood, Murtagh could see for miles. He remained wary, despite Galbatorix's casual air. He knew he could never be too cautious around the mad king.

"Oh, Murtagh, how I only wish you could see it as I do!" he said. With his free hand, he gestured outward, across the countryside. Galbatorix's deep black eyes took on a dreamy cast. "Once I have eradicated the Varden and established my new Riders, there will be no more need for war! My Empire will thrive. You can help me rebuild Alagaesia, and the Dragon Riders."

Murtagh swallowed heavily. "Have I not said?" he growled, his fury making him reckless. He had nothing to lose, after all. He stepped back, his eyes filled with loathing. "I will _never _join you!"

Without warning, Galbatorix reached down and slapped Murtagh viciously across the face. Murtagh reeled, stunned by the force of the blow.

"Watch your tongue!" Galbatorix snapped. "You don't have a choice! The old Riders were useless. They were lazy and arrogant, and their arrogance made them weak. They were unable to do their job properly. I have no wish to destroy them, only to see them rebuilt and reborn, under the direction of an Empire than must survive."

The king chuckled again before continuing. "Now, if we may move on to the reason I requested your presence." Galbatorix snapped his fingers, and two servants appeared, each carrying a black silk cushion swathed in velvet cloth. One cloth was a deep, ruby red hue, and the other vivid green. Another snap from Galbatorix and the servants departed. Galbatorix slowly drew back the cloths, one in each hand. His long, spidery fingers twitched with anticipation. Murtagh gaped at what lay underneath.

Two dragon's eggs.

The eggs were quite large, about a foot in length. One was a deep scarlet, the colour of freshly spilled blood, the other a shining emerald green. Both matched the colour of their respective velvet cloths almost exactly. Veins of lighter colour, so pale they were almost white, ran through the eggs' surfaces in untraceable webs. Murtagh let out a low gasp.

"Impressive, are they not?" Galbatorix said with a smirk. "Yes, these eggs have been my most prized possessions for many years. They have yet to hatch, but it is my hope that that will be rectified today."

Murtagh stared at him, wide-eyed.

"You understand me, Murtagh. Touch the egg, please."

Though Galbatorix had not told him which egg to touch, Murtagh was instantly drawn to the scarlet one, which seemed to radiate a power that the green egg lacked. He reached out a hand, knowing the power a dragon hatchling would bring him. He would have magical strength to surpass Eragon's by far. The people of the Empire would remember him forever as the greatest Dragon Rider that had ever lived.

He knew without a doubt that Galbatorix would force him into subservience should the egg hatch for him, but the promise of a dragon was impossible to resist. And besides, he had a nasty feeling that, should the egg not hatch for him, he was as good as dead anyway. Gritting his teeth, Murtagh thrust his hand forward and laid it on the egg.

The egg trembled slightly. It was all the warning Murtagh was given before he heard a sound like a soft chirp echo out of the egg. Stepping back, Murtagh was astonished to see a thin but definite line make its way across the egg's surface. More cracks appeared, growing steadily broader. Large pieces of the shell began to break away, falling to the ground. Finally, the last of the eggshell broke apart and a ruby dragon hatchling tumbled gracelessly out of the egg.

The dragon was roughly the size of a small cat. It coughed lightly then shook itself off. It unfurled scarlet wings that were several times larger than its body, appraising them with an intelligent eye. Seeming satisfied, it curled up on the floor and began licking a forepaw. Murtagh sank to his knees, oblivious to Galbatorix's cries of happiness. The chick stopped preening and peered at Murtagh. There was a hidden wisdom in its intense gaze that awed Murtagh. It was as if the dragon, though newly hatched, possessed the knowledge of centuries.

Hesitantly, Murtagh stretched his left hand forward. The dragon seemed to have no objection, so Murtagh gently began to caress its small head, braced for what he knew was about to happen.

As if on cue, a blast of white-hot energy shone around the hand he had laid on the dragon. It pulsed out of the dragon and up Murtagh's left arm, knocking his breath away. He swayed, fighting to remain upright as his whole arm went numb. The burning, flame-like energy smouldered painfully for several long moments, and then finally died down. When he removed his hand, he was greeted with a glittering, silvery mark on his palm: the gedwey ignasia.

"This is indeed glorious." Galbatorix's voice was suddenly much gentler. "I shall have you moved to new quarters at once – those suitable for a Dragon Rider."

Murtagh wondered at Galbatorix's words. He was indeed a Dragon Rider, and the scarlet dragon chick seemed to recognize it. It nuzzled Murtagh affectionately, butting him in fun. Somehow Murtagh knew the dragon was male.

"Return to your suite and pack your belongings, Murtagh," said Galbatorix. "A servant will be along shortly to show you to your new rooms. You will awaken at dawn tomorrow, and your training will begin."

Murtagh nodded and did as he was bid. He scooped the tiny dragon into his arms and carried it down the twisting halls to his suite, stroking it absentmindedly. When he entered his rooms, Murtagh flopped down onto the four-poster bed while the dragon settled himself on the writing desk.

"I suppose you need a name," he said to the dragon.

The dragon simply stared.

Murtagh continued. "The ancient names hold no attraction for me. Since you are to be part of a new era of dragons and Dragon Riders, I shall have to think of a modern name for you."

The dragon only blinked; Murtagh took his silence as agreement. He crossed to the open window and looked out. Though the cave-like recess that protected the castle forbade much natural light, bright flameless lanterns illuminated the courtyard. A narrow cobblestone paths twisted between clumps of rose bushes. One such bush was directly below Murtagh's window. Absently, he reached down to pluck one of the wine-coloured flowers, but his hand closed instead on a thorny stem.

Murtagh pulled his hand back with a cry of shock. The cuts that rent his palm were small, but he had been so lost in his own thoughts that he had not expected the pain. Blood trickled slowly out of the gashes, collecting to run down his wrist and stain the edge of his sleeve. The infant dragon looked up, startled by the Murtagh's cry.

"It's fine," Murtagh told the dragon, proffering his injured hand for inspection. "It's just a scratch."

Then, to Murtagh's great surprise, the hatchling began licking the blood off his hand. His rough tongue darted out, gently cleaning Murtagh's wound. Within moments, all the blood was gone.

"Thank you," Murtagh told the dragon. "Well, I think I have a name for you. _Thorn _seems fitting, don't you think?"

The dragon sat still for a moment, pondering the name. He nodded once, then curled up on the writing desk and went to sleep.

* * *

A/N: This is the chapter that is likely going to take the most work. As we learn in Inheritance, Murtagh was the first to survive several "tests," the nature of which are unknown, before he was exposed to Thorn's egg. I'd like to figure out a way to get this in here eventually, but it's not my most immediate problem. As with the previous chapter, this will stay how it is for now. I've been gradually chaging the smaller descriptions (Galbatorix's appearance, the throne room, the doors), but something this big is going to take longer.

UPDATE (August 2012): Okay, I know I said I wanted to make this Inheritance-compliant, but I think I'm going to omit the tests, at least for the foreseeable future. It just means too much re-writing of stuff that I'm already satisfied with. If I find myself facing a considerable amount of free time, that may be subject to change.

- Miss Maddie


	4. Chapter 4

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 4

A quarter of an hour later, Murtagh heard a knock at the door. He opened it and saw the same serving woman that had taken him to Galbatorix two days earlier. She smiled prettily and curtsied, all semblance of politeness, but Murtagh could tell she was nervous.

"Your new suite is ready for you, sir," she said apprehensively, as though unsure whether he was going to snap at her. "If you are ready to leave, His Majesty King Galbatorix wishes you to get settled in as soon as possible."

"Yes, I'm ready," replied Murtagh. "One moment." Murtagh stepped back into his old rooms and gathered his few belongings. They consisted of little more than his armour, weapons and the clothes on his back. He crossed to the writing desk in his bedchamber, where Thorn was still curled up in sleep.

"Thorn," Murtagh said, prodding the dragon gently, "you have to get up. We're leaving."

Thorn shook himself awake. Glaring at Murtagh, he hopped lightly down from the desk and padded out of the suite.

Murtagh carried his belongings outside, where a small, wheeled cart waited for him. The servant smiled. "If you could please put your things here, sir, I will take you to your new rooms."

Murtagh nodded. "Do you want a ride?" he asked Thorn, motioning for the dragon to get in the cart. Thorn shook his small, scaly head, opting to walk. He positioned himself at Murtagh's feet, and the trio set off down the dark, winding halls.

As they walked down the corridors, they passed several men and women in the grey and white livery of palace servants, all hurrying down the corridors to one task or another. A contingent of heavily armed guards passed, bearing shields and spears.

Murtagh grew more and more confused as they continued down the halls. As the minutes wore on, they seemed to be moving deeper and deeper into the bowels of the castle. The halls soon gave way to carved stone tunnels, and he realized they were burrowing right through the tor around the citadel. Murtagh was just beginning to wonder whether Galbatorix meant to stick them in a cave when the tunnel opened onto a wide, airy corridor. It took Murtagh a moment to notice that it was naturally lit, the afternoon sunlight glinted off cut glass panes.

The servant led them down the hall to their right, stopping at a set of oak doors. She took a ring of keys from a pouch on her apron and opened the doors, revealing to Murtagh the grandest set of rooms he had ever seen.

The enormous suite had a high, domed ceiling, which was patterned with silver stars. Elegant mahogany chairs were clustered around a heath with a brilliant white marble mantle. A fire was already crackling merrily in the grate. The floors were of highly polished oak, partially concealed by thick, intricately woven rugs. Crystal-paned windows stretched from floor to ceiling. A peek into the bedroom showed Murtagh an enormous four-poster bed, larger even that the one in his old suite, covered with the softest of down comforters. Murtagh was impressed.

The serving woman smiled at Murtagh's satisfaction. "I take my leave, sirs," she said, addressing both Murtagh and Thorn. She ducked outside and wheeled in the cart bearing Murtagh's belongings. Curtsying again, she strode off down the hall.

Following Thorn into the bedroom, Murtagh flopped down on the bed, pondering what had happened to him that day. In a few short hours, he had become a Dragon Rider, with countless possibilities ahead of him. While the fact that he was under Galbatorix's control was a hindrance to be sure, Murtagh felt certain he could grow strong enough to escape the mad king. After all, he had done it before, and that was without the might of a dragon by his side.

Looking fondly at Thorn, Murtagh saw the dragon raise his snout and sniff the air. Thorn jumped off the bed and raced out a pair of double doors leading out of the bedroom. Murtagh followed him out side and found himself in a grassy meadow, bordered by a thick barrier of tall spruce trees. He took a deep breath, savouring the sweet spring air. He was immensely pleased to be outside again. For the first time since arriving at the castle, he felt like he could breathe.

At the far end there stood a strange three-sided metal structure, padded with mounds of hay. It was quite large, and seemed very sturdy, but Murtagh could not guess as to its purpose.

Suddenly, he felt something brush his leg, and looked down to see Thorn chasing a rabbit through the tall grass. Though he could have caught it in an instant, he allowed the terrified animal a few yards of freedom before pouncing on it. He snapped the rabbit's neck with a sharp shake and began to eat greedily, not stopping until that last of the rabbit had disappeared down his gullet.

Murtagh knew why the dragon was so hungry. Aside from a few drops of Murtagh's own blood, he had had nothing to eat since he had hatched. After watching Thorn eat, Murtagh discovered that he too was ravenous. He wandered back into his suite, searching for sustenance.

As Murtagh's stomach was beginning to growl painfully, he heard yet another knock at the door. He opened it, but this time it was not the serving woman he had come to expect. This one was a man, attired as the other servants were in dark grey and white. He was carrying a tray laden with a slice of juicy venison, roast potatoes and a pitcher of water.

"Good evening sir." Said the servant. "Here is your meal. I also carry a message from King Galbatorix."

"Go on."

"His Majesty wishes that you take this meal here, in your suite, but that all others are to be served in the dining hall. Food will also be provided for you dragon, but there is plenty of wild prey in the meadow outside your suite if he wishes to hunt. His Majesty expects you in the dining hall as soon a you awaken tomorrow." The servant handed Murtagh the tray of food. "Please place this tray outside your rooms when you have finished." Without waiting for a response, the servant bowed low and retreated.

Taking the tray of food into his suite, Murtagh sat down and devoured the meal, to hungry to talk to Thorn, who had wandered back into the suite, his eyelids drooping heavily. Murtagh too was growing tired.

Though he felt lazy, sleeping so much, Murtagh reminded himself that, with the exhaustion of the battle under Farther Dur and the days that followed, and then his removal to Uru'baen, he had the right to rest a while. His sense of time, though, was still oddly skewed. Murtagh didn't know how long he had been unconscious, nor when he had arrived at the castle, but it seemed like years since he had fought in the battle, visited Eragon in the herbalist Angela's rooms and hunted Urgals in the tunnels.

Murtagh finished his meal quickly, placing the empty tray outside the door of his suite. He lay down in the enormous bed, sinking comfortably between the satin sheets. Thorn hopped up to the foot of the bed, staring at Murtagh intently, as if he were concentrating.

Then Murtagh felt another mind touch his own. Unlike Galbatorix's malignant probes, this one seemed harmless.

_Murtagh._

Murtagh stared at the dragon, who was gazing directly at him.

"Is that _you_?" he asked, completely bewildered. How could the dragon have learned to communicate so quickly? It was not even a day old.

_Yes. Thorn. Thorn!_

There it was again, but stronger this time. Thorn seemed to be testing out his new name.

_Thorn and Murtagh._

As Murtagh closed his eyes, he felt Thorn's consciousness touch his one last time.

_Dragon and Rider._

Murtagh smiled as he succumbed to his exhaustion, then plunged into heavy sleep with Thorn curled at his feet.

* * *

A/N: So I'm having issues with this chapter, but it's not just this one - I'm debating whether or not to change my description of Uru'baen to match the gigantic stone bluff in Inheritance. I like the image, but changing it will cause me much grief. I pretty much have to change how it looks every time they go outside. As this is also one of the bigger projects (coming to the end of those, I promise!) it will wait for a while. I'll gradually change the easier stuff right away, though. If it's too much of a pain in the ass, I could always settle for "semi-Inheritance compliant," but I'd rather not do that if I can avoid it.

- Miss Maddie


	5. Chapter 5

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 5

Murtagh had no trouble rising early the next day. Donning the shirt and trousers that had been set out for him, he watched as Thorn awoke, stretching himself like a cat.

_Morning,_ said Thorn through their mental connection.

Murtagh was still unused to Thorn's presence in his mind, though it was not wholly unwelcome. Looking out one of the tall windows of his suite, he saw that Thorn had been right. The calm, clear sky of the previous evening had vanished, and had been replaced with a vast expanse of angry, iron-grey clouds that stretched outward past the horizon. The air was terribly humid, and Murtagh could hear rolls of thunder crashing in the distance. A storm was coming.

Murtagh proceeded out into the hall, Thorn trotting at his heels. Flaming torches spaced evenly upon the dark stone walls provided light and heat, but still they were not completely shielded from the chill of the outside air. They hurried down the draughty corridors until they arrived at the great golden doors of the throne room, and then proceeded straight past them toward the dining hall.

Trepidation settled over Murtagh like a pall, growing heavier with every step. He had always avoided this room, where Galbatorix held the grandest feasts and parties for his courts, whenever possible.

The two men guarding the heavy oak doors were talking quietly to each other as Murtagh and Thorn approached. They straightened up, gaping at the dragon. The taller of the two regained his composure and directed Murtagh inside. "Right this way, sir," he said, "His Majesty's expecting you."

When Murtagh entered the dining hall, he understood immediately that it served an entirely different purpose than the throne room. There was neither gaudy gold nor all-encompassing darkness; instead, the brightly lit chamber was furnished entirely of polished wood. Long tables, currently empty, sat against the walls, making way for the large dance floor that filled the centre of the room. Light from the elegant crystal chandeliers that hung from the high ceiling was reflected in the gleaming floor. Thick walls and roaring fires of the dining hall kept the cold at bay.

Murtagh knew that while the dark and forbidding atmosphere of the throne room was meant to strike fear and awe into the hearts of Galbatorix's subjects, the dining hall left guests comfortable and at ease, and thus open to the king's manipulations.

Galbatorix sat in a grand, throne-like chair at the centre of the head table, raised several inches on a stone dais. The many platters were already loaded with breakfast fare. "Good morning once again, Murtagh. I see you have received my message. There is much that needs to be done today, but first, please eat."

He gestured to a chair on his immediate right. Murtagh sat, and Thorn settled himself behind their table. Murtagh selected some fruit and rolls, and Galbatorix asked, "Have you chosen a name for your dragon yet?"

"Yes. We decided on 'Thorn.'"

Galbatorix nodded his approval. "And a thorn he shall be to all of our enemies."

That was to be the last of the conversation, it seemed. Galbatorix ate his meal in silence and Murtagh was happy to follow his lead. When they finished, servants appeared and wordlessly cleared away the dishes.

Galbatorix rose, beckoning for Murtagh to follow. Murtagh did as he was bid, and he followed Galbatorix out a side door and down a short corridor into a small, dimly lit anteroom. Murtagh cried out in shock at the sight that awaited him.

"Traitors!" he bellowed. "What are you doing here?"

"We could ask you the same thing." The Twins turned to face him, their violet silk robes billowing around their tall, thin frames. Murtagh made to throw himself at the identical sorcerers, but found an iron-hard barrier in his way. He pounded his fists against the invisible wall, hatred thundering through his body, but it would not break. Feeling Murtagh's rage, Thorn too launched himself towards the Twins, but found the same barrier blocking his path.

"That is quite enough, Murtagh," admonished Galbatorix. "You would do well to be more polite to my honoured guests. They have been a great help to me these past few years. As my personal informants, the Twins have given me secrets of the Varden even you could not imagine."

The Twins smirked at Murtagh's stunned disbelief. "But then," began Murtagh, "the Urgal attack – that was you!"

The Twins treated him to identical mocking stare. "Give the boy a prize!" they sneered. "Forgive us, sire," said one, "but we had thought your Rider to be more intelligent than this."

Galbatorix pressed his lips together in a tight line. "Shall we move on to the reason we are all here?" he asked, though it was clear from his tone that it was not a question. "I had so hoped it wouldn't come to this, but since you refused my previous offer…" He trailed off, and then addressed the Twins. "Though I hate to rush this sort of thing, there are a whole host of other issues that must occupy my attention today."

The Twins nodded in unison, and rounded on Murtagh. "Today you and your dragon will both swear oaths of fealty to King Galbatorix and to his Empire," one of them said. "We will tell you the words in the ancient language and you will repeat them, so that there will be no…misunderstanding in the matter."

Murtagh bristled; he knew that, since it was impossible to utter falsehoods in the elves' tongue, an oath sworn in the ancient language was eternally binding. "And if we don't?" he asked, vying for time.

"Then we will show you pain such as you have never known," said the Twins simply.

Galbatorix smiled coldly, and then said, "Well, gentlemen, I really must be going. I leave Murtagh and Thorn in your capable hands."

As Galbatorix strode out of the antechamber, the Twins turned to Murtagh, cruel smiles warping their features.

"Galbatorix pities you," said one. "He said to do this gently, to go easy on you."

The other Twin smiled, his eyes bright with sick anticipation. "But Galbatorix is not here."

Murtagh could do nothing to raise his defence before the Twins shouted, "Thrysta vindr!" A rock-hard ball of air slammed into his stomach and he and Thorn were thrown backwards. Murtagh's slammed into the wall_,_ and the stone flags of the room blurred together.

The Twins advanced upon their captives, their hands raised. Murtagh stumbled to his feet, ready to fend them off with his fists if need be. Beside him, Thorn bared his tiny, razor-sharp teeth angrily.

The sorcerers chuckled quietly. "Why, look here, brother," exclaimed one. "The little boys want to play!"

"Well then, I suppose we should grant them their wish!"

At the same moment, on of the Twins shouted "Thrysta vindr!" yet again while the other bellowed, "Brisingr!" The air around Murtagh and Thorn compressed, rooting them to the spot and cutting off their air as a tongue of searing violet flame washed over them. It scorched them to their bones without leaving a single mark on their bodies.

Murtagh lay slumped and huddled in an exhausted heap, powerless to resist the Twin's wrath. "Traitors," he croaked again, but the Twins only laughed.

"No, Murtagh," they replied. "It is you and the Varden who are the traitors. Those puling, filthy rebels will not stand a chance when Galbatorix shows them the true extent of his power. Their order is doomed, but we are here to ensure that you won't go running to them again."

"Repeat after me, Murtagh," said one of the Twins, speaking slowly and clearly "Iet ren un iet lif wiol pomnuria konungr Galbatorix, fra nona eom iet dauth."

Murtagh had no idea what the words meant; he recognized only Galbatorix's name, but he could sense that they were riddled with binding power. Glancing over at Thorn, all he could see were his ruby-bright eyes glittering in the dimly lit anteroom.

The Twin's mouth twisted into an enraged grimace when Murtagh did not speak. "Repeat it!" he snarled. "Brisingr!"

Again the purple fire streaked over Murtagh, making him scream in blind agony. It was Galbatorix's torture all over again, this time doubled with the Twin's combined force. The fire was burning him alive, but it was not so merciful as to let him die.

"Jierda!" The Twins cried together. With a loud _crack_, Murtagh felt and heard a rib snap. He roared in pain, trying not to move or even to breathe as the Twins sauntered over to where he lay crumpled on the ground.

"Yes, it hurts, doesn't it?" said one of the Twins with a mocking smile. He raised his hand, and Murtagh was slammed up against the wall, unable to move anything but his head. "I suggest you stop struggling, Murtagh. There is no point in resisting. You know you will never beat us. You're only making this harder for us all. We don't want to hurt you."

Somehow, Murtagh doubted that.

But Murtagh would not – could not – surrender to the Twin's demands. Over the past three days he had clung to his last, desperate hope that somehow he would be able to escape Galbatorix's clutches and leave Uru'baen. He knew his escape was unlikely, even impossible, but still he had hoped.

"By the way, Murtagh," said one of the Twins, in a deceivingly offhand manner. "We have some information that we think you will want to know."

"What." It was hardly a question.

"Tut, tut, Murtagh. Say 'please!'"

Murtagh kept silent. If their only goal was to humiliate him, well, he wasn't going to give them the satisfaction.

"Oh well," said the other Twin to his sibling, shrugging his thin shoulders theatrically. "I guess he doesn't want to know that he has a brother."

Murtagh froze. "What did you say?"

"Oh, dear me," said the Twin, drawing a hand to his mouth in mock surprise. "Did I say that out loud?"

"What did you say?" Murtagh repeated.

"I'll give you a hint, you stupid little boy," the Twin snapped. Speaking with deliberate slowness, as if talking to a young child, he said, "Who rides a scaly pig, fumbles with simple spells and thinks himself the rebels' champion?"

Murtagh nearly choked on the blood trickling into his mouth. His legs turned to jelly, and he would have fallen were he not pressed up against the wall, held there by the Twin's invisible shackles. He realized whom they meant but could not believe it. "No!" he said, his voice rising to a shout. "You're lying! I - I don't believe you!"

"Believe it, Murtagh. Nosu gala du illumeo," said the other man with a smirk. "We speak the truth." He had said it in the ancient language - there was no way it could be anything else. Murtagh's mouth would not move. He could only watch on in numb silence as the truth was revealed.

"Eragon thought his mother's name was not worth concealing from us. "'Selena' is not as common as one might think."

"Galbatorix was nearly as stunned as you are when we told him the news. He never even suspected that Morzan had another son. In fact," the other Twin said, "I don't think even Morzan knew his wife was again with child. He was away during her pregnancy, and when your brother was born, the bitch went and hid Morzan's own son from him."

Tears stung at Murtagh's eyes, and it took all his willpower not to let them fall. These bastards had seen too much of his pain. He refused to allow them to see how much their words were killing him.

Eragon was his _brother._ No matter how he tried, Murtagh could not make sense of the words. They had travelled together for months, fought alongside each other in the battle of Tronjheim, and he had never guessed. Murtagh berated himself for his stupidity. He should have known. Somehow, he should have been able to figure it out.

One of the Twins grabbed Murtagh's chin and wrenched his face upwards, so that they looked each other in the eye. "Imagine the blow the Varden would suffer if they knew their sainted champion was the son of their hated enemy and his Black Hand," he said softly, more to himself than to Murtagh.

With the last bit of strength he could muster, Murtagh spat what was left of the blood in his mouth onto the Twin's pale, pointed face.

The man stood stock still in cold fury for a fraction of a second. As he wiped the blood and saliva from his face with the hem of his sleeve, he whispered, so low that Murtagh could barely hear it, "Big mistake, boy."

Looking him dead in the eye, the Twin released a bolt of agony directly into Murtagh's gut.

Murtagh couldn't help it. He _screamed_, the sound reverberating around the stone chamber and heightening the volume tenfold. Beside him, Thorn writhed and squealed with the shared pain. The dragon let loose a high, keening wail, and his little body shook so violently that Murtagh thought it would burst. Blood trickled from the corners Murtagh's mouth, and as he tasted the coppery bitterness, he knew he was dying.

That fact far from troubled him, however. He would be free at last. Finally released from the shackles that bound him to both the Empire and the Varden.

His only regret was that Thorn would be alone.

And then the pain was gone. Murtagh went completely limp, and his body fell to the floor in a crumpled heap. The Twin on whom Murtagh had spat knelt beside him. Slowly lowering a finger to Murtagh's mouth, the man touched it to the to the blood that welled there, and then brought it to his own lips.

"Delicious, delicious…" he murmured as he sucked his finger clean, savouring the taste of Murtagh's blood.

"Never," croaked Murtagh, his voice hoarse from screaming. "Never join you."

"You already have, Murtagh."

"No."

Yet again, the Twins cast the spell that sent fire raging across Murtagh's body, but he had no strength to cry out. He lacked the strength even to feel. "Do you enjoy this torture, boy?" they asked, taunting him. Their chilling black eyes were level with his. "Do you? Because only you can make it stop. It will only destroy you if you don't, and think how angry Galbatorix would be if we killed you. Come now, the words are simple: Iet ren un iet lif wiol pomnuria konungr Galbatorix, fra nona eom iet dauth."

Murtagh panted, gasping for breath that only burned his throat further. With a last defeated sigh, he whispered the phrase, cursing inwardly. He had just let go of the last chance he had to regain his freedom. The minute he said the words, Murtagh felt their strength run through his veins. He became rooted to the spot; he could not move an inch. Thorn too was completely motionless, but his eyes betrayed a helpless fear, and he whimpered softly.

"That was very wise of you, Murtagh," said the Twins, halting the flames. "However, we are not yet finished. There are many other oaths you must swear to ensure that you will remain faithful to Galbatorix."

And so the Twins continued with their work. Again and again they spoke words in the ancient language and forced Murtagh to repeat them, binding him and Thorn to Galbatorix, to his Empire and to his cause. Whenever Murtagh was reluctant to speak or stumbled over the unfamiliar words, the Twins would threaten him with the purple flame and make him repeat the phrase until he pronounced every syllable perfectly. It was long and tedious work that took up the better part of the morning and left Murtagh feeling drained and exhausted.

When they were finally finished and the Twins had closed every available loophole, Murtagh and Thorn were released, and nearly crawled back to their rooms. Murtagh winced with every step; his broken rib still pained him greatly. Depositing Thorn on the bed, he slithered beneath the soft goose-down coverlets, too exhausted to remove even his boots. Thorn stepped lightly up to the pillow, gently nuzzling Murtagh's cheek. Murtagh wanted to lift a hand and caress the dragon's head, but found he had not the strength to raise his leaden arms.

As Thorn curled up beside him, he said, _Life hurts._

Regret and pity stabbed suddenly at Murtagh's heart. Thorn was barely a day old, and already he had endured more than his share of suffering. From the moment of his birth, he was a prisoner.

"I'm so sorry, Thorn," said Murtagh wearily, his voice hoarse from screaming. Again, tears threatened at the corners of his eyes, though none fell. "I never meant for any of this to happen. Yesterday you were an egg, and today…today you are a slave. Because of me."

_Not your fault,_ Thorn repeated. The little dragon yawned, and Murtagh was suddenly flooded with a feeling of surprising serenity. Even as he lay there, the ache in his limbs lessened somewhat. _Happy you found me._

Despite himself, Murtagh smiled weakly. Then, overcome with exhaustion from the days' events, he too was lost to deep and mercifully dreamless sleep.

* * *

A/N: It's hard to believe this used to be three different chapters. I think it works much better this way. Aside from that, I think I've finally figured out the order that all this beginning stuff is supposed to appear in. First, Galbatorix tortures Murtagh as punishment for running away (I think the aforementioned "tests" will factor in here somewhere). During this time, Galbatorix discovers Murtagh's true name. Then, when Thorn hatches, the Twins will force both of them to swear allegiance to Galbatorix. After a while, Thorn's true name will also be discovered. It's going to be a little skewed for a while, so please bear with me, and correct me if I'm wrong about the order.


	6. Chapter 6

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 6

Murtagh rose as the sun was setting, every muscle in his body screaming in protest. His head ached fiercely, even more so than it had after he had been bludgeoned by the Urgal under Farthen Dur. Forcing the pain from his mind, Murtagh raised himself to a seated position, taking extreme care not to move too quickly. It was then that he remembered his broken rib. Wincing, he lay back down. Thorn had not yet stirred, and was still curled up next to him.

Looking out the ceiling-high windows of his bedchamber, Murtagh saw that the morning's violent storms had not yet ceased. The sheets of icy rain continued to pound the glass windows relentlessly, making them shudder and shake in their wrought-iron frames. Murtagh was grateful for the large fire that had been lit in the hearth, keeping the chill away.

Wary of his rib, Murtagh got up and nudged the dragon. "Come on," he said, his voice even raspier than it had been that morning. "It's time for dinner."

Thorn roused himself quickly at the promise of a meal. He seemed to be in better shape than Murtagh, who was grateful that the Twins torture had been focused on himself rather than the dragon.

"Then let's go," said Murtagh as they left the suite and shuffled down the corridor. "As strange as it sounds, I also want to talk to Galbatorix."

What for?

"You seem very advanced for your age. As far as I know, Saphira took weeks to do what you have accomplished in just days."

_Saphira_? asked Thorn.

"My – my brother's dragon."

_Tell me about her_.

"I hardly ever spoke to her, except when we once had to rescue Eragon," replied Murtagh, remembering Eragon's capture at Gil'ead. After much cajoling, he had convinced Saphira to open her mind to him, even though it was considered terrible bad manners to interfere with a Rider's dragon. In the end, Saphira had relented, and after a heavy bribe and a filthy rubbish chute, Murtagh had found and freed Eragon and the elf, Arya. "She seemed well enough, though perhaps a bit full of herself."

_Forgivable, in a dragon,_ said Thorn, drawing a pained smile from Murtagh.

They had now reached the dining hall. Passing a different set of guards this time, they entered and stood before Galbatorix.

"My greetings to you, Murtagh and Thorn. Come and eat. I wish to begin testing your competence, in swordplay and in other areas."

"That won't be possible," said Murtagh. "Thorn and I are both in too much pain to deal with your tests."

"I beg your pardon?" said Galbatorix, his voice low and dangerous.

"When the Twins extracted our vows, they went far beyond the pain that was necessary. In fact, they seemed to enjoy torturing us."

Galbatorix's eyes narrowed, and his already thin lips were pressed so tightly together that they were invisible. "You had better not be lying to me, Murtagh," he said quietly. "I assure you, it will serve you no purpose."

"Look into my mind, then, and you will know that I speak the truth."

Murtagh readied himself, but felt no pain at all as Galbatorix's consciousness slid smoothly over his own, like water over a bed of rocks. _So it is possible to do this without pain_, he thought.

Galbatorix drew back from Murtagh's mind. "Perhaps you are telling the truth. Rest assured, Murtagh, I will speak to the Twins about their treatment of you and Thorn. I will have to heal your wounds before we begin your test. Both of you stand still."

Galbatorix raised hit hands over Murtagh and Thorn, saying "Waise heill!"  
Having been healed by magic only a handful of times in his life, Murtagh was still amazed as his pain began to disappear. His broken rib slid back into place, the bone and sinew knitting itself back together. The ache in his head dulled and then was gone as his stiff, sore muscles relaxed. The cuts sealed themselves, replaced with pink, shiny new skin. His bruises faded.

Murtagh gaped. In the space of a few seconds, Galbatorix had just done what would have taken weeks to heal naturally.

"Much better," said Galbatorix. "Now, come and eat. You are no doubt hungry after your healing."

Murtagh was indeed ravenous. Sitting down beside Galbatorix, he chose a roast chicken leg, a mound of mashed potatoes and some vegetables from the overwhelming amount of food at the table. Thorn, too, was given several whole chickens, and settled himself at Murtagh's feet.

"Now, what is it you wanted to ask me, Murtagh?" he asked.

"It's about Thorn," Murtagh said. "He is barely a day old, and yet he can already communicate with me. And why did he hatch so fast? From what I know, dragons must be in their Rider's presence at least a few days before hatching."

"Though that is more common, it is not always the case," replied Galbatorix. "Sometimes even the smallest contact with his Rider will trigger the reaction that causes a dragon to hatch.

"As to your other question, it is my influence that has advanced Thorn's capabilities. Dragons that have been exposed to me seem to be, shall we say, _smarter _than they would be otherwise. Their mental capacity responds to my very presence.

"Now, Murtagh, finish your meal. There is much that needs to be done, and very little time in which to accomplish it. We need to be ready to fight the Varden and their Rider at a moment's notice."

Murtagh's spirits fell at that. It was the first mention of his actually fighting Eragon and Saphira. Up until now, that notion had seemed slightly surreal, a far-off nightmare that could never really happen. Galbatorix mentioning it in such a casual way had given life to the nightmare.

"Why?" asked Murtagh suddenly.

"Excuse me?"

"Why do we have to fight Eragon and Saphira? What's the point of killing them?"

Galbatorix gaped. "You thought – you thought I wanted to _kill_ your brother?" And then Galbatorix did something Murtagh never would have expected: He laughed out loud. "Murtagh, I had thought it was obvious! Saphira is the _last female dragon in existence. _The only chance of survival for her entire race is for her to mate with either Shruikan or Thorn, both of whom are here!" Galbatorix's eyes were wide with the passion of his speech. "Do you think I would throw away the only chance the dragons have? The only chance the Riders have? I simply want you to bring them here, so we can all rebuild the dragons! You and Eragon would lead the new Riders together. This is our only chance for peace!"

"Wait, you want Saphira to mate with Thorn?" Murtagh demanded, almost in disgust. "But – he's just a baby!"

"After my magical growth, that will hardly be a problem."

Murtagh nearly choked on his chicken leg. "Magical growth?" he spluttered, his eyes watering. "You mean to make him bigger unnaturally? You can't do that!"

Galbatorix now became stern. "I can and I will. How else do you suppose him to be big and strong enough to subdue Eragon and Saphira when the time comes? I know they will never come willingly. The poor fools refuse to comprehend that I want only peace for all of Alagaesia. They will never understand that I have only their best interests at heart. I will need to speak to them myself, show them the truth of the matter."

"What about that other egg?" Murtagh asked, remembering the emerald-green egg that had sat beside Thorn's. "You wouldn't need Saphira it were female."

"You are making excuses to protect both her and Eragon, Murtagh, and I will have non of it," admonished Galbatorix firmly. "You cannot let your personal feelings interfere with the greater good. Besides, the dragon is male, I am absolutely sure."

Murtagh's face fell. "How can you tell?"

"I listened to his thoughts."

Murtagh shivered. The idea of Galbatorix listening to anybody's thoughts was frightening, let alone invading the privacy of a defenceless unborn dragon. A person's mind was his last refuge. That Galbatorix had stolen Murtagh's mind was the worst possible punishment.

"Besides," the king continued, "I need to grow Thorn if you want to ride him any time soon. You _do_ want to learn, don't you?"

"Yes," said Murtagh quickly. "But it won't…hurt him, will it?"

"Of course not!" Galbatorix exclaimed. "A pinch here and there, perhaps some minor inflammation, but in the end a better dragon for it. I imagine it will be quite the sight when we fly out to meet the Varden together. " He smiled, a familiar faraway look in his eyes. "That is the day the Varden will finally be brought to heel. The resistance will be crushed, and peace will reign throughout my empire."

Murtagh shivered, despite the warmth of the dining hall. "Why don't you fight them yourself, then?" There was a slightly accusatory tone to Murtagh's voice. It was not as if he wanted the Varden to lose, he was just genuinely curious as to why the king and his dragon did not simply face the rebellion themselves. The Varden's meagre contingent of sorcerers would be no match for Galbatorix's strength. "You could end this war right now."

"We are full of questions today, aren't we, Murtagh?" said Galbatorix, almost laughing. "I am simply biding my time, waiting for the opportune moment. Why strike now, when we can crush them on my own terms? You are untrained and unprepared. The Varden are strong now; they come off a victory. I will let them become complacent and weak, and then destroy them at my leisure."

"And you think Thorn and I will be ready by then?"

Galbatorix rolled his beady black eyes. "Yes, I do, or I would not have brought you here in the first place. Not to worry, Murtagh. All will be well."

As they completed their meal and the heaps of food were cleared away, Galbatorix lead Murtagh and Thorn through a door behind the head table to a small antechamber. There were no windows; the room was lit only with torches hanging on the walls and the two large candelabra that stood beside a wooden table. To Murtagh's surprise, his hand-and-a-half sword was lying on the table, still in its sheath, along with his dagger.

"As you can see, I took the liberty of having your weapons brought here in advance," said Galbatorix. "I too have brought my favourite weapon." He pulled aside his ornate robes to reveal a pure white scabbard strapped to his hip. "I relieved Vrael of this sword, which I call Vrangr, when I killed him. He was unfit to carry it, just as he was unfit to lead the Riders. But that is a tale for another time."

Murtagh took up his sword from the table, suddenly uncertain.

"Come now, Murtagh, it is only a test. I need to be able to appraise your skill level."

Thorn nodded his scaly head. _Do it_, he said. _I want to see the claw-things._

Murtagh nodded, and turned to face the king.

* * *

A/N: Not too many changes in this chapter other than the results of condensing it. The only thing I needed to fix was the description of Galbatorix's sword, which I originally had as black. I really loved the description of the colour in the book, white like "sun-bleached bone." It may screw some things up later on, but I think I managed to fit the new description in nicely enough.

- Miss Maddie


	7. Chapter 7

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 7

"We begin with testing your skill with a blade," said Galbatorix as he removed his tunic, waiting for Murtagh to do the same. Though Galbatorix was over a century old, his body was that of a man no older than his forties. H his muscles stood out, lean and corded, beneath his tanned skin. He appeared to be the picture of health, though Murtagh knew he barely ventured outside his castle at all.

In fact, the gossip was that Galbatorix had left the city only once in the last ten years: Marcus Tabor, the lord of Dras-Leona and a newly ennobled commoner, had been getting a bit too comfortable with his new position. He had grown lax with the people of his city, and Murtagh had seen and heard the man giving himself airs. The situation steadily worsened, until Galbatorix himself had travelled to Dras-Leona to teach the uppity lord his place.

Murtagh had been in Dras-Leona at the time, tracking the Ra'zac, the king's monstrous personal assassins. As soon as he learned that the king was coming, Murtagh had left the city, in the company of Eragon and Saphira. He hadn't wanted to be within ten leagues of Galbatorix.

Not that that mattered now.

A sharp pinch in his mind reminded Murtagh that Galbatorix still waited. "That wasn't the only reason I journeyed to Dras-Leona, Murtagh," the king said quietly. "Tabor needed dealing with, of course, but it was you I was really hoping to find." He smirked. "It was so very rude of you to leave without saying goodbye. I was quite looking forward to a little chat, but you and your brother managed to slip through my grasp yet again…and now here we are. Fate has a sense of humour, does it not?" the king shook his head, chuckling darkly. "But I digress. We have work to do. "

The king drew his sword, an uncommonly long blade as white as bone. The gemstone set into the pommel may as well been hewn from ice. The sword sent sudden chill through Murtagh's body. If death had a colour, that was certainly it.

Galbatorix swung the sword in a few smooth, practiced motions before settling into a ready stance. He had used no spell to dull their swords, as Eragon had done when they had sparred together. If Murtagh were not careful, he would be sliced to ribbons in a heartbeat.

Galbatorix's face was completely emotionless as he prepared himself. "I will attack; you will attempt to defend yourself. I will not use magic, and I will not enter your mind. Defend!"

Murtagh barely had time to raise his hand-and-a-half sword as Galbatorix's blade came whistling through the air towards his unprotected face. Murtagh caught the blade just moments before it connected with its target, on the flat edge of his own sword. The two deadly weapons grated together with a shrill, metallic hiss that ran a shiver up Murtagh's spine.

Galbatorix was a spinning blur in the air. Again and again he struck, making Murtagh's sword arm go numb with each successive pass. Once, the swords met on their edges, and a few small chips of steel were cut loose from Murtagh's sword and fluttered to the ground. The king's sword, practically indestructible thanks to the spells it was imbibed with, remained unharmed.

Try as he might, Murtagh could venture no attack of his own. He could only parry each slash and dance just beyond the reach of Galbatorix's sword. Once, when Galbatorix was drawing his weapon back for another blow, Murtagh saw an opening. He lunged, his sword-point whistling upwards to kiss the hollow of the king's pale throat, but in the next instant the chance was gone, for Galbatorix had jumped aside with inhuman speed and charged once again at Murtagh, resuming their seemingly endless duel.

They continued this for what seemed like hours before Galbatorix, in a fit of sudden swiftness, swung his sword around in a complex overhand pass that brought him face-to-face with Murtagh. In a graceful, deadly gesture, Galbatorix snaked his sword past Murtagh's outstretched arm and pressed the tip just above his heart. A drop of blood welled there and trickled down Murtagh's bare chest.

"Dead," said Galbatorix coldly. They disengaged, Galbatorix panting slightly, Murtagh drenched in sweat. "Though I must admit, you are a formidable duellist. You must remember, however, that you will never win a fight with defence. All you can do is hold your opponent off for a while."

Gasping as he tried to catch his breath, Murtagh said nothing.

"Rest some, then we will move on." Galbatorix took two water flasks from the table, keeping one for himself and passing the other to Murtagh. "Drink only a small sip of this. It is very strong."

Murtagh took a drink, and was surprised to find that the flasks contained not water, but a pungent, sweet liquid that tasted of raspberries.

"What is this?" Murtagh asked. The drink had cooled his dry, burning throat and cleared his senses, leaving him refreshed and energized. It felt as if their exhausting duel had never happened.

"It is faelnirv, an elven liquor that I have taken a fancy to," answered Galbatorix, taking another sip from his own flask.

Glancing over at Thorn, he saw that the dragon had fallen asleep during their duel, his head resting on his front paws. He was even snoring slightly, tiny wisps of smoke rising from his nostrils, eliciting a smile from Murtagh.

The pair sat down on the stairs and Galbatorix continued. "I admit there is little more I can teach you on the subject of swordplay itself. To be able to hold your own against a warrior such as myself is, I'll admit, quite an accomplishment." Taking a sip of faelnirv, he said, "There is, however, the matter of finding you a sword."

"Can I not use this?" demanded Murtagh, holding up his hand-and-a-half sword.

"I think not!" exclaimed Galbatorix, running his hand over the chips in the tempered steel. "That child's plaything barely survived our little duel. It is hardly suitable for a Dragon Rider."

Murtagh felt rather stung at the king's words. The hand-and-a-half sword had been his prime weapon ever since his teacher Tornac had deemed him fit to carry one. He could not think of parting with it.

"Indeed, I shall have to find you a proper Rider's sword," said Galbatorix. "By all rights you should have your own, specially made to suit your preferences, but alas, my smiths have not the tools nor the talent to forge such and important blade. In fact," said Galbatorix, stroking his beard, "I believe the only smith who has the skills to make such a sword is an elf, currently residing in Du Weldenvarden. She is a master, and to use any other would be an insult to the craft.

"No, since I cannot make you your own sword, we shall have to find you another. I am sure I have something in my stores that would be suitable…"Galbatorix trailed off, thinking.

Then Murtagh saw something in his mind's eye. It was a vision of a long, burnished scarlet blade, three and a half feet in length, its single-handed hilt wrapped in silver wire. A teardrop-shaped ruby the size of a small egg was set into the pommel. A strange symbol, two crescent moons superimposed over the twisting blade of a sword, was etched in black just below the golden cross-guards.

"Zar'roc," Murtagh whispered.

"Zar'roc?" asked Galbatorix.

"My father's sword."

"Oh, yes, I had forgotten that Morzan had named his sword 'Misery.' How fitting a name. It was an unsurpassed weapon, and a work of art to be sure. But tell me, how does that relate to my problem?"

"Eragon still has it." Murtagh felt the old bitterness and jealousy slip back into him. Eragon had no right to carry Zar'roc. Whatever Murtagh thought of his father, the sword was his by right of inheritance, and it was the only inheritance Murtagh had ever hoped to receive. He remembered those long nights on their journey to the Varden, while Eragon lay sleeping, he had quietly slid Zar'roc from its sheath and tried a few passes with it. How wonderful it had felt in his hand! Suddenly his old hand-and-a-half sword felt very much like the child's toy Galbatorix had named it.

"Do you suppose you will take it from him?" asked Galbatorix.

"Yes. Zar'roc belongs to me, and I want it back."

"Then you shall have it," said Galbatorix. "Your father's sword would indeed be a perfect match, and I believe it is the same colour as Thorn, am I correct?"

"Yes," said Murtagh. Zar'roc's crimson hue was indeed the exact same shade as Thorn's scales.

"Not particularly necessary, but it keeps with the tradition that Rider's swords match their dragons," said Galbatorix. "However, you must know that it will be some time before you will be able to retrieve what is rightfully yours."

"Why?" asked Murtagh. "Surely I am fiercer a fighter than Eragon."

"That may be true, but Eragon has been training as a Dragon Rider for far longer than you have. His dragon is much older than Thorn, and has had substantial combat experience. Though, in a few months that will hardly be a problem. I am going to give you something that will make you and Thorn far more powerful than they are."

Murtagh pressed, but Galbatorix refused to say anything more on the subject, and the conversation turned to Murtagh's schooling.

"I am assuming that you can read and write," said Galbatorix.

"I am proficient at both in the common speech, yes," replied Murtagh.

"Good, that saves me hours of tedious instruction. What of the other languages?"

"I picked up some of the dwarves' tongue in Tronjheim," answered Murtagh, remembering his days in the cell at the base of the city. He had wiled away the endless hours reading various scrolls that had been brought from the dwarves' immense library at his request. "Though I know precious little of the ancient language."

"That is of no importance," said Galbatorix. "I wish to teach you the language of spells myself. In time, you will be able to use it without thinking. As well, you should try and learn some of the Urgal language. However crude a tongue it is, it is excellent for certain documents that should not fall into the wrong hands."

Murtagh blanched at this. No matter what Galbatorix thought of Urgals, he could not bring himself to tolerate them. He had killed dozens under Farthen Dur, and more still in their search of the tunnels. It was by their aid that he had been brought, against his will, to Uru'baen, and he still viewed them as monsters.

"I agree, Murtagh, they are monsters."

Murtagh jumped. He had nearly forgotten that his every thought was open to Galbatorix.

"Even so, they are my allies, and you would do well to exhibit some forbearance on their account."

They could say no more as the bell signalling the tenth evening hour sounded in the distance. The low, melodic knell reminded Murtagh of how exhausted he was, and he yawned despite himself.

"That is enough for tonight, I think," said Galbatorix. "You should sleep now; my healing will have made you tired. There a few more things I need to test tomorrow, as well as someone I would like you to meet." They got to their feet as the tenth chime sounded. "To bed now, Murtagh. You have had a long day, and could no doubt do with some real rest. Go to the archery yards at the usual hour tomorrow morning, and bring your bow. I will have breakfast for you there."

Murtagh nodded, too tired to speak, sheathed his sword and made to tuck the dagger back into his boot.

"Do not trouble yourself about those, Murtagh," he said. "I will see them brought up to your chambers."

Nodding again, Murtagh scooped the sleeping Thorn into his arms, and trudged back to his rooms. He could barely keep his eyes open as he removed his boots and placed Thorn at the foot of his bed. He slid between the sheets, asleep before he hit the pillow.

Galbatorix watched Murtagh and Thorn leave, a false, simpering smile still plastered across his face. He had told Murtagh that it was the healing that had exhausted him so, but that was far from the truth. The faelnirv Murtagh drank would have left him completely energized, if not for the wordless spell Galbatorix had cast as the tenth-hour bell tolled. Now they were out of his way, and he could proceed to his business.

Crossing the antechamber to the table that held Murtagh's weapons, Galbatorix picked up the ivory-hilted dagger. Tilting it toward the light, he ran his spindly fingers along the blade until he found what he was looking for: an engraved arrow with a wavy, snakelike tail, pointing upwards towards the hilt.

Drac'ner.

Smiling with satisfaction, Galbatorix lifted the familiar dagger until the gleaming silver blade caught the torchlight and reflected his triumphant face back at him. He was finally reunited with his old friend.

Drac'ner was so much more than a dagger. How Murtagh had managed to use it for so long without discovering its true purpose was a mark of how powerful the blade really was.

Forged long ago by the master elf-smith Rhunön, Drac'ner was a masterpiece to rival any of the Riders' swords. Stabbed into the heart of any enemy, it would kill them as any other dagger would. If the correct words in the ancient language were spoken over the body, the wielder could then ask any questions he desired, to be answered by the reanimated corpse with absolute truthfulness. Everything the victim had known in life was now theirs to divulge in death. Only after Drac'ner had been removed would the victim's soul be free to depart the world of the living.

Instead of selling or keeping Drac'ner, Rhunön had given it as a gift to her son, the Dragon Rider Kialandi.

That was his symbol, just below the hilt. Galbatorix had had the thirteen Forsworn's private symbols engraved on each of their weapons. Drac'ner had been Kialandi's favourite until his master had taken it from him. Of course Galbatorix could never have allowed such a dangerous weapon to remain in the possession of one he so distrusted.

But Kialandi would never know the true strength of his favourite weapon. He was long dead, like all of the Forsworn, and now Drac'ner answered to a new master. Even Rhunön, who had forged the blade by her own hand, had never known the full extent of Drac'ner's formidable power. She had intended to be a much simpler tool.

When Kialandi had first joined Galbatorix's order, he had used Drac'ner to harvest the very last reserves of energy from the bodies of those slain in battle. The spark of life force, too small to be harvested by a spellcaster alone, proved to be unfailingly present in every recently deceased being. The soul lived on for a short time inside its body, and flared bright for a moment, like a candle at the end of its wick, just prior to extinguishing for all time.

If reaped within the brief moments immediately following death, the tiny spark of energy was powerful enough to restore the vitality of dozens of exhausted soldiers.

The practice was simple enough: the prick of a finger, a drop of blood, and the energy was stored in the jewel on the hilt, which could then be tapped by the wielder.

Useful as this was, Galbatorix had seen in Drac'ner a higher purpose. After many years of intense study and experimentation, he had perfected Drac'ner, altered it to a masterwork of interrogation through the use of necromancy.

The exact art of death magic was thought by the elves to be the very foulest form of sorcery, who remained ignorant of its true potential. Close-minded fools, the lot of them. The cowards were afraid of the power that dark magic offered them.

Drac'ner had been Galbatorix's first project, his initial foray into the near untapped field of necromancy. It had been completed while he was still in his youth. Since then, Galbatorix had used necromancy, and many other branches of dark magic, to discover, manipulate and even invent spells that the elves dared not touch.

Murtagh would learn soon enough that dark magic was an essential part of Galbatorix's rule. And when he did, Drac'ner would be one of the first tools he would learn how to use.

Galbatorix had kept and used the weapon for years before the traitor had stolen it. He had thought Tornac was his faithful servant, only to find out he had been a rebel spy, serving the Varden. Tornac had foolishly tried to escape Uru'baen with Murtagh after stealing Drac'ner from Galbatorix's private stores. He had been killed, but a search of his body revealed that the magic dagger was missing.

Drac'ner had vanished until Murtagh brought it back to Uru'baen. Galbatorix's had thought he recognized the ornate filigree designs on the hilt, but had not been absolutely sure until this moment.

Sliding the dagger back into its sheath, Galbatorix exited the antechamber, carrying the dagger almost with reverence.

Galbatorix approached a servant who was polishing a torch-bracket. The maid sank to her knees immediately, with a terrified, "Your Imperial Majesty."

Without saying a word, Galbatorix pulled Drac'ner once again from its sheath, seized the front of the maid's dress and plunged it directly into her heart.

The maid went limp immediately. Raising a hand over her still body, Galbatorix whispered a long, complex phrase in the ancient language, a spell of his own making.

For a moment there was nothing, and then the dead woman's eyes opened wide, but there was something different about them. There was no iris, no pupil, only two dark, glistening voids. Both her eyes were completely black, as if ink had been spilled into them. And yet, they seemed to be alive somehow, the empty orbs roiling softly, like thunderclouds in the dead of night.

The servant's head snapped to attention, Drac'ner still buried hilt-deep in her chest.

Galbatorix smiled. This was exactly how he remembered it. "What are your children's names, and how old are they?" he asked, staring into her changed eyes.

"Stefan and Luna. They are ten and six years old." The voice was completely devoid of emotion, the maid's body simply stating the facts.

"How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"Have you ever been unfaithful to your husband?"

"Yes."

"With whom?"

"The captain of the guard."

"For how long?"

"Two years."

"I thought as much."

With another grim smile, Galbatorix yanked Drac'ner from the maid's heart. With a final gasp, the black stain cleared from her eyes and she fell lifelessly to the floor of the dining hall.

It was wonderful, this feeling of absolute power. Before it had been stolen, Galbatorix had used Drac'ner to interrogate suspected spies and traitors, enemy soldiers captured in battle, even random servants, as he had done now. He had particularly enjoyed stealing the truth from his fellow Riders. Even magic as strong as theirs was no match for Drac'ner's power.

Wiping the bloody blade on the maid's apron, Galbatorix beckoned to another servant, who rushed to him and sank to his knees, his eyes wide as he gaped at the lifeless corpse.

"Clean this up," the king ordered, motioning to the dead serving-woman. "Then take the sword in the antechamber to my Rider's rooms."

"At once, your Majesty."

With a nod, Galbatorix swept out of the dining hall towards his private wing, cradling Drac'ner in his arms.

Kialandi's prize had returned to its true master at last.

* * *

A/N: This was one of the very first scenes I wrote, and it was finished before several of the earlier chapters. Pre-Inheritance, Kialandi was a girl, but it doesn't make much difference - I just had to adjust a few pronouns. I wish all my fixes were that simple.

- Miss Maddie


	8. Chapter 8

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 8

Murtagh did not want to wake up. He was still in that blissful place just outside of sleep, the gloomy grey pre-dawn light already shining through the window and into his closed eyes. Usually he had no trouble rising with the dawn, but traces of the exhaustion that had hit him the night before were still present. He could not believe he had been so tired so early in the night, even after his healing.

Forcing his leaden eyelids to creak open, Murtagh roused himself and dressed. Reaching for his weapons, he found his sword and bow sitting on the weapons rack, but Drac'ner was nowhere to be found.

"Those idiot servants better not have lost it," he muttered angrily to himself.

He wandered over to the window and gazed outside, where he saw that the previous day's brutal storms had finally blown themselves out, leaving the meadow outside sparkling with the morning dew.

Thorn awoke and yawned widely, then hopped down off the bed and padded out the double doors to the meadow outside the suite. Murtagh followed, watching the young dragon raise his snout to the air and sniff.

_I smell rain, _he said, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a dragonish grin. _And food! _Thorn shot off to the right, and there was a moment of silence before a terrified vole streaked out of her burrow. The dragon wasted no time in pouncing on the animal, not bothering to play with it as he had with the rabbit two days previously. Within seconds the vole had disappeared. Licking his chops, Thorn looked back to Murtagh, as though expecting praise.

"Yes, you did well," responded Murtagh with a smile.

Beautiful here, said Thorn suddenly, gazing around the pristine meadow.

"It is," agreed Murtagh, "but the world isn't all like this, I'm afraid." Eyeing the honeysuckle bush beside him, Murtagh spied a huge, buzzing hornet. "The city of Uru'baen, just down the road, is as disgusting as they come." Shooing the insect away, Murtagh knelt down and took some of the honeysuckle between his fingers. Crushing the little buds in his hand, he inhaled the sweet scent.

_Why so different? _

"I can't begin to tell you," Murtagh replied. "One would think that Galbatorix could mind both his charges, but humans, even kings, are rarely able to see the greater picture."

_Life would be easier if all were as sensible as dragons,_ said Thorn.

Murtagh had to bite back a gasp. It was the longest phrase the dragon had yet uttered, and perhaps the most truthful. "That it would," he agreed with a small smile.

As the bell sounded half past the hour, Murtagh shouldered his bow and quiver and he and Thorn set off down the stone tunnel that connected his suite with the rest of the castle. Once he was back on a path he recognized, Murtagh had no trouble locating the archery yards. As a child, he had spent much of his time practicing there. There had never been any stuffy, arrogant nobles, only soldiers, who were content to let him go about his business. He had even shot against them on several occasions, winning competitions against hardy soldiers who were ten years his senior.

Galbatorix was waiting for him as they approached the archery yards. After the airiness of his suite, the indoor court felt close and stifling. "Excellent," said the king. "I see you brought your bow," he said. "As I told you last night, I wish to also test your skill in archery before we proceed."

"I would have brought my dagger also, but it was not in my room this morning."

"Ah, yes, that is because I have Drac'ner here." Galbatorix smirked at Murtagh's open-mouthed stare. He pulled the dagger out of a fold in his tunic and held it out to Murtagh, who reached for it.

"Ah, ah, ah, Murtagh." Galbatorix snatched the dagger back and Murtagh's hand closed around empty air. "You see Drac'ner belongs to me. It was stolen from me when you and your little traitor friend escaped." Drawing the dagger from its sheath, Galbatorix ran his long fingers up and down the blade, tracing Kialandi's symbol. "It's a shame really. Tornac showed such promise. Turns out he was working for the Varden all along. Who would have thought?"

Murtagh was stunned. He had known that Tornac had wanted to escape Galbatorix, just like he did, but he had no idea that he had been a spy.

"Surprised, Murtagh?" asked Gabatorix with another smirk. "A disappointment, but no matter, no matter. He is long dead anyway." Sliding Drac'ner into the sheath, Galbatorix continued. "I will find you another dagger, Murtagh. Drac'ner is rather special to me, that's all." He smiled, and said softly to himself, "Perhaps one day I will show you just how special."

Though Murtagh knew that there was nothing out of the ordinary about the dagger, he still felt stung at the loss. His warhorse, named for Tornac, was still in Tronjheim, where Murtagh had left him. Murtagh would never see the horse again. Now that Drac'ner was gone, he had nothing to remind him of his mentor.

Galbatorix ignored Murtagh's bewildered silence. "Come now, Murtagh, the past is the past. As I said, I will get you another dagger – a better one. Now, it is a beautiful day, and I still need to test your marksmanship."

Taking up his own bow, which was already strung, Galbatorix drew a raven-fletched arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Drawing the bowstring back almost to his ear, Galbatorix didn't even stop to aim as the bowstring twanged and the arrow whistled towards the target, a hundred paces away. The arrow buried itself in the centre of the palm-sized circle painted on its, still shaking slightly.

"String your bow and split my arrow."

Murtagh blanched. That was a shot he could make about one in five times. Though the target was well within the range of his powerful bow, to split an arrow meant hitting it at exactly the right point. It was a difficult shot even for him.

Nodding grimly, Murtagh took his horsehair bowstring from its leather coil, rubbing his yew bow to warm it up. Bracing the end of the bow against his foot, he pulled the grip back, sliding the string into the notch. Drawing one of his own arrows, he raised the bow took aim, letting everything but the target slide from his focus as the bow fell into position. The arrow shot forward, whistling like Galbatorix's had.

He knew even before he let go that he was going to make the shot. His alignment was perfect, the shot released with exactly the right amount of force. He smiled with satisfaction as his arrow hit the dead centre of Galbatorix's arrow, splitting it evenly down the middle and plunging deep into the cork target.

"Wonderful," exclaimed Galbatorix. "Why, Murtagh, your shooting is even better than your swordplay! However, I would like to see a little more before we proceed."

Galbatorix had Murtagh shoot from various stances and distances, with bows of various size and type. He tried shooting wooden and metal arrows, weighted at different points with rounds of lead. Murtagh even shot a flaming arrow.

After several hours of constant shooting, Murtagh's stomach was beginning to growl painfully. At first the work had distracted him, but now there could be no ignoring his ravenous hunger.

"You said there would be breakfast," said Murtagh, massaging his arm after a particularly difficult shot.

"What – oh! It completely slipped my mind. Here." Galbatorix snapped his fingers, and a servant appeared, carrying a large bowl of porridge sweetened with cream and honey and studded with fruit and nuts. It looked delicious.

Murtagh took a large spoonful, but spat it out almost immediately. "It's cold!" he exclaimed in disgust.

Galbatorix rounded on the servant. "Idiot! I told you to keep it warm until it was needed!"

"We're t-terribly sorry, your M-Majesty," stuttered the shaking servant. "It's been so l-long, we thought you d-d-didn't need – "

Galbatorix cut him off with a deadly glare. "Your incompetence is forgiven this time. Make sure it _never_ happens again."

"Yes, y-your Majesty." The servant bowed low and retreated, sighing with relief.

"I apologize once again, Murtagh. Give it to me."

Murtagh handed over the porridge. With a soft murmur of, "Brisingr," a ball of white-hot flame ignited on Galbatorix's palm. He held it underneath the bowl until the food was heated through.

As Murtagh ate his breakfast, he asked, "When will I learn to do that?"

"Soon, Murtagh, very soon. Magic is perhaps the most important thing you are to learn here."

"That word you said, brisingr. It means 'fire' doesn't it?"

"Yes."

"I want to try."

Galbatorix's onyx eyes sparkled. "If you wish it."

Murtagh did not know exactly what to do. Like he did with shooting, he closed his mind to everything but the task at hand. Holding out his left palm, he whispered, "Brisingr."

The gedwey ignasia glowed faintly for a fraction of a second, and then there was nothing.

Again he tried. "Brisingr!" he said, louder this time.

Still nothing.

And then there was a spark, followed by a tiny wisp of flame. Murtagh was so surprised that he immediately lost control, and the tongue of fire winked out of existence. But he knew he had seen it. For the first time ever, he had done magic.

With a sense of elated triumph, he turned to Galbatorix.

"Yes, you did well." Galbatorix, mimicking what Murtagh had told Thorn not three hours before. "But now it is time to proceed back indoors, if you are finished eating. As I said, there is someone I would like you to meet."


	9. Chapter 9

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 9

Galbatorix led Murtagh and Thorn down an unfamiliar hallway off the archery yards. Murtagh ignored the deep-kneed bows from passing servants, dignitaries and people whose positions he did not recognize. Most of them were scared when they laid eyes on Galbatorix and Murtagh, and in awe at Thorn.

It unnerved Murtagh to have people he didn't know kneeling before him. He wondered if this was how Eragon had felt in the three days after the battle under Farthen Dur. No, Eragon had probably enjoyed it more. After all, he had done something worth cheering for.

Exiting a small door, Galbatorix led Murtagh down a staircase carved into the great stone outcropping that sheltered the citadel. The stairs opened onto a small stone courtyard, and then to a vast, empty field on the south-eastern side of the bluff, out of sight of the city and palace. While they had been shooting, pearly grey clouds had rolled in, blotting out the sun. The previously clear day had gone gloomy and overcast.

"Today," began Galbatorix, "you will meet the one friend and companion who has stood faithfully by me these past hundred years. Together, we brought the old Riders to heel. We have crushed all uprising, just as we will crush the Varden. The day we fly out into battle is the day the rebels fall!"

Reaching his hands up towards the opaque sky, Galbatorix called out with both his mind and voice.

"_SHRUIKAN!"_

Galbatorix was met with an unearthly bellow so loud it shook the flagstones beneath Murtagh's feet. It was as if the dying screams of thousands of men had been grouped together and thrown at him at a hundred times the volume. The roar sent the starlings in the trees into a wild panic, and they took off in terror. A few even fell to the ground, their tiny hearts burst.

Murtagh dropped to his knees, his hands clapped over his ears, Thorn, too, was on the ground, head buried beneath his paws. A sound of that magnitude was desperately painful for his sensitive ears.

And then, out of nowhere, out of nothing, a vast, hulking shape loomed over the horizon. Blacker than night, it seemed as if a large hill had detached itself from the ground and was racing toward them. Immense, slightly translucent bat-like wings held the creature aloft, propelling it onward, and within seconds it had reached them.

Shruikan banked on the rolling grass, tearing up chunks of sod with his enormous, deadly sharp claws. Powerful muscles rippled under his glittering black scales. His eyes, pale, cold and ice blue, sparkled maliciously so high above Murtagh's head that he had to crane his neck to see. As he watched, the dragon loosed a pillar of fiercely hot flame into the grey sky.

As the column of fire dissipated, Shruikan turned his gaze on Murtagh and Thorn, who found that they could not meet his eye. The great dragon snorted, and a jet of flame shot towards them. Murtagh snatched up Thorn and dove out of the way just as the fire hit the ground and set the grass ablaze.

"Adurna," said Galbatorix calmly, putting out the fire with a wave of his hand. "Please don't scorch them, Shruikan. They are the only ones I have."

As far as Murtagh could tell, Shruikan ignored him. The beast - for that was truly what he was - gave no indication that he had even heard the king speak.

"Shruikan will instruct Thorn in flying, aerial combat and the art of fire, among other things," said Galbatorix. "If he could spare a minute, I may also require his assistance with another manner." He looked at Shruikan, who made no sign that he had heard. Galbatorix obviously took his silence for assent, and said, "We'll make it fast, then, shall we? Thorn, if you would please join us."

Shaking like a leaf, Thorn stepped forward.

"If you were listening yesterday, which I know you were, than you have realized that I plan to grow you with magic, so that you will be ready to fight. This is a difficult task even for me, so I have enlisted Shruikan's help. Now, if you will hold very still, we can start. Ready yourself." This last was directed at both Thorn and Shruikan. Galbatorix held his right palm out over Thorn, placing his left one on Shruikan's snout. The king's whole hand didn't even cover one of Shruikan's scales. His silver gedwey ignasia glowed with blinding intensity as he softly chanted an unintelligible string of words in the ancient language.

Over and over Glabatorix recited the phrases, with a lilting, almost song-like cadence to his voice. Despite Shruikan's added strength, beads of sweat collected on the king's brow, and he grunted with effort. For quite some time it seemed like nothing was happening, until finally Galbatorix let out a pained gasp, and a dozen pulsing spheres of multicoloured light popped into existence.

The orbs hovered around Galbatorix and Shruikan, circling them curiously. At the king's continued chanting, they darkened, losing their varied hues, until they were so black they seemed to suck all the light, all the colour from their surroundings. It was as if Murtagh was looking into true nothingness, holes in the very fabric of the world.

The field in which the four of them stood seemed to grow dimmer, as if the sun itself was gradually being extinguished. A faint noise began to emanate from the infinitely black spheres, a chorus of icy whispers that chilled Murtagh to the bone. He felt as though he had stumbled across a terrible, dangerous secret, something the likes of him weren't meant to know. Of one thing he was certain: these spheres, whatever they might be, were evil.

Grey-faced with the effort of maintaining the spell, Galbatorix wordlessly gestured at Thorn, who trembled with terror a few paces away. Before Murtagh could protest, the orbs sank downward and slid through the centre of the dragon's chest.

A corona of nothingness began to throb around Thorn's body as a low hum filled the air. The noise slowly increased in pitch, and Murtagh could only look on in horror as the dragon threw his head back in a soundless scream, convulsing on the ground.

Thorn's little body shuddered violently for several moments, and then, so slowly as to be almost unnoticeable, it began to grow. His vestigial wings widened; his neck and tail elongated. Sharp spines protruded from the skin on his back. His torso stretched up and out, shoulders and legs growing broader, chest becoming deeper. His already hard scales thickened and grew more defined.

In a matter of moments, Thorn's body, not including the neck and tail, was roughly the size of a large carriage.

When Galbatorix seemed satisfied, he released the spell. He sagged against Shruikan's enormous snout, his face ashen. With a sound like a rush of howling wind, Murtagh felt the flow of magic cease. Within a few moments, the chill that had permeated the air with the arrival of the lightless orbs ebbed away. Thorn lay huddled on the ground, his gigantic wings curled tightly to his body. The dragon was utterly still – he did not even seem to be breathing.

Too terrified to speak, Murtagh reached out with his mind and, as gently as he could, nudged Thorn's consciousness with his own.

He felt absolutely nothing. Panicking, Murtagh flung himself forward, running his hands over Thorn's enormous flank. His usually warm body was deathly cold.

Murtagh shook as a feeling of combined dread and fury washed over him. He rounded on Galbatorix, who was still leaning against Shruikan, his eyes closed. "What did you do to him?" Murtagh demanded.

When Galbatorix finally spoke, his voice was quiet and hoarse. "Thorn is fine, Murtagh. All he needs is sleep. I, too, could use rest. That spell was…taxing, even for me. Dragons are somewhat resistant to the effects of magic, and the invocation of the spirits made the spell all the more powerful, and thus very difficult."

"I thought only _Shades_ used spirits to fuel their magic," said Murtagh, spitting out the hated word.

"I am no Shade," replied Galbatorix, managing a weak chuckle. "The spirits do not control me, nor are they my slaves. We simply have what some might call a…mutually beneficial relationship. They augment my power when I call on them, and I supply them with certain things, the nature of which I will keep to myself for the time being."

For once, Murtagh did not press, despite his curiosity. In this instance, he was certain he did not want to know.

Breathing heavily, Galbatorix continued. "The residual effects of the spell will accelerate Thorn's growth for a time. He may gain another foot or two within the week. Depending on how fast he can progress on his own, I may need to perform the spell again." He grimaced, wiping his sweat-sodden brow with his sleeve. "I sincerely hope that is not necessary."

Stroking Thorn's neck, Murtagh asked, "When will he wake up? You said your spell would not hurt him."

"It hasn't, Murtagh. Thorn's body has shut down as a natural defensive response to the magic I applied. The torpor may last several days, perhaps a week if we are unlucky. Thorn will be as healthy as ever when he emerges from it, though it will likely take him some time to get used to his new size. For now, though, you must let him rest on his own." Galbatorix smirked at Murtagh's hesitant frown. "You worry too much," he said. "Now, I have only one thing I need you to do today. Go to the library – I trust you remember where it is – and pick up the books and scrolls I set out for you. Some are in this tongue and some in the ancient language, which you are to start learning immediately."

Murtagh shook his head. "I'm staying with Thorn."

"You will do as I say," replied the king, his voice turning sharp. "There is nothing you can do to help, and I can't allow you to waste what little time we have. I need you to start studying. Being a Dragon Rides isn't all about swords and magic and flying, you know. As tedious as it sounds, there is some book learning involved. Now, I am going to sleep. I will see you in the morning." With that, Galbatorix was gone, dragging himself up the stairs and back into the castle.

Shruikan appraised Murtagh silently for a long moment. He said nothing, but Murtagh could feel a vast, ages old consciousness rumble through his own. Then, without warning,the dragon took off, creating a gust of wind that knocked Murtagh off his feet. He flew, albeit a little clumsily, off to the east, until he was no more than a dark spot against the pearly backdrop of clouds.

With a last look at Thorn, Murtagh grudgingly set off toward the library. Loath as he was to leave the dragon, he _was_ interested in reading the scrolls, especially those in the ancient language. He had always loved to read, devouring the books he had been shown as a young boy.

The library had been one of Murtagh's favourite haunts during his youth. It was as immense, if not bigger than the dwarves' library in Tronjheim. Taking up the west wing on the third floor of Galbatorix's castle, it was home to thousands of bookshelves that held hundreds of thousands of books and scrolls. Long oaken cases were stuffed to bursting with dusty volumes on every subject imaginable, from geography and history to humorous works of fiction, in every language spoken in Alagaesia.

There was even a single copy of _Domia abr Wyrda_, or _The Dominance of Fate._ It was kept in a glass case, and no one, not even the head librarian, was allowed to handle it.

The head librarian was a thin, weedy man by the name of Sebastian. He was a fluent speaker of the languages of the dwarves and the Urgals, but his specialty was the varying dialects of the nomadic tribes that wandered the southern reaches of the Hadarac desert. For as long as Murtagh could remember, Sebastian had been prowling the cavernous library, breathing down the necks of any who dared touch his precious books.

Murtagh thoroughly disliked the greasy, sandy-haired little man, and had enjoyed a joke at his expense on more than one occasion. For the most part, though, Murtagh avoided Sebastian as much as possible during his long hours in the library.

Entering the large double doors, Murtagh approached Sebastian's desk, leaning on it in a way Murtagh knew would annoy him. Sebastian was very easily annoyed.

"Hello, Sebastian," said Murtagh jovially, not troubling to lower his voice. "Galbatorix told me to pick up some books. I'll take them now."

Looking down his nose at Murtagh, Sebastian sighed and re-adjusted his spectacles. "Back again, after all this time? I thought I was shot of you." His high, nasal voice was evident even in his hushed whisper.

Murtagh smirked. "Sorry to disappoint."

Rolling his watery eyes, Sebastian said, "The titles _King_ Galbatorix had me take out are over there on that table. _Do_ be careful with them. I'll have you know I went through great pains to get them for you, and many of them are older than you are."

"I assure you, Sebastian, I'll take _very_ good care of them," whispered Murtagh with mock sobriety. Tormenting Sebastian was more fun than he remembered.

Gathering up the towering stack of books, Murtagh took them to a table at the back of the library, as far away from the Sebastian's desk as possible. Settling himself in a comfortable armchair, he picked up the first book, which happened to be a dictionary of words, phrases and sentence structure in the ancient language, translated into the common speech.

Setting the dictionary aside, he took the next volume, entitled _Du Fyrn Skulblaka_. Even without his dictionary, Murtagh knew it recounted the events of the first war between the dragons and the elves. He began to read, relying heavily on the dictionary, having to translate almost every word.

The Dragon War, though tragic, was also fascinating. Murtagh barely noticed as the hours passed, absorbed as he was by the events that had set in motion the foundation of the Riders. As afternoon wore into evening, Murtagh looked up to see the magic lanterns used to light the library flicker on of their own accord. Torches, of course, had no place in a library. The flameless lanterns cast a soft glow over the page Murtagh was reading, about the elf, Eragon, the first Dragon Rider and his brother's namesake, and his white dragon Bid'Daum.

It was later than Murtagh had realized. The sky had grown dark while he sat reading, and a growing ache in his gut reminded him that he had not eaten since breakfast. More than that, though, he was anxious to check on Thorn.

Gathering up his effects, Murtagh stood and stretched, his muscles stiff from having spent the better part of the afternoon curled up in an armchair. Navigating his way through the maze of towering shelves, Murtagh treated Sebastian to a jaunty, mocking nod before retracing his path to the field.

A thin crescent moon provided just enough light to see by as Murtagh slipped outside. He was disheartened but not surprised to see that Thorn's condition had not changed. The dragon lay curled in a tight ball and was as still as death, though when Murtagh laid a hand on his flank, he thought he might have been a little warmer. He sent a perfunctory mental probe in Thorn's direction, but, as he had expected, it was to no avail.

With a heavy sigh, Murtagh sat down in the grass beside the dragon, stroking his long neck gently. He could not believe how quickly this whole ordeal seemed to be progressing. So much had happened since his becoming a Dragon Rider only two days previously that it seemed he had started a new life entirely.

After of few minutes of miserable silence, Murtagh stood and gathered up his effects. "Good night, Thorn," he whispered, though he knew only the bats and owls that swooped overhead could hear him.

He made to head back up the stone staircase, but something stopped him. The meadow outside his suite and this field both faced the eastern horizon, and both were on the outer edge of the great prominence. Surely, if he simply walked north, he would reach his suite faster than if he had to trudge through the many twisting halls.

He was not wrong. After about ten minutes of walking, keeping the outcropping to his left, he came to a stand of spruce trees. Careful not to trip on any protruding roots, he slipped into the meadow. As he laid eyes on the three-sided metal structure, he suddenly realized what it was for. Of course Thorn was now too big to sleep inside, and would need a shelter of his own.

Murtagh trudged across the meadow and into his suite, grateful to discover that a hot supper of mutton and vegetables was waiting for him on the table. He deposited the stack of books beside his bed before sitting down by the fire, eating the food without tasting a bite of it. He then set the empty plate outside the door and clambered into bed.

Feeling more alone than he had in months, Murtagh closed his eyes and waited for sleep to consume him.

* * *

A/N: Okay, some HUGE changes in this chapter. After reading Inheritance, I really wanted to accentuate Shruikan's hugeness while at the same time de-emphasizing his humanity. I also needed to fix Thorn's growth. In the original, it wasn't complicated enough and didn't have enough long-term effects. I think this version is quite a bit better than the original, but I'll leave that up to you. Review and tell me what you think.

- Miss Maddie


	10. Chapter 10

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 10

Galbatorix was growing impatient; Murtagh could see it in his black eyes. "No! Try again!" he barked.

"I am trying!" snapped Murtagh. He, too, was quickly becoming irritated. "Stenr reisa, Stenr reisa!"

Murtagh had been making precious little progress over the last three days. Though he had been anxious to begin the study of magic, he found it to be much more difficult than it seemed when he had first uttered the word "brisingr." While bringing fire to his palm had not been easy, Murtagh had produced a spark on only his second try. Now, he could not for the life of him lift a small rock, nor could he perform any of the other tasks Galbatorix had had him try.

For days now he had attempted various forms of magic, all with as little success as this one. He could barely move even the tiniest of pebbles, and found himself unable to conjure fire or water. Occasionally, he had been able to channel a small spark of power into his efforts, but the brief accomplishment came in fits and spurts, few and far between.

Thorn had still not woken from comatose state, at least not since Murtagh had dashed to the adjoining field during the few minutes' rest he had been allowed over lunch earlier that day. Murtagh had visited the inert dragon every time he had a spare moment, but Thorn slept on, oblivious to Murtagh's mental and physical attempts to wake him. His worry about Thorn's continued torpor did not help Murtagh's attempts at magic. He was tense and distracted, which lead only to more failure.

Galbatorix was not pleased with Murtagh's lack of improvement, to say the least. With each disappointing attempt, he would punish Murtagh brutally, with mental, sometimes physical blows. The king was not a patient man, and was quick to let Murtagh know the effects of his short fuse and explosive temper. The cuts and bruises that Murtagh sustained on his account weakened his already battered body, but even the threat of corporal harm did little to encourage his magic. If anything, the punishment made it all the more difficult, as Murtagh's body was further unable to handle the strains of using even the simplest spells.

Shruikan was the only one who seemed to find the proceedings amusing. The immense dragon sometimes watched from the edge of the field, as he was today, chuckling at each fruitless attempt. The dragon's haughty, commanding presence did nothing to relieve Murtagh's stress.

Contrary to what Galbatorix had first thought, Murtagh actually knew quite a lot of the theory behind magic. He had learned much from the books he had studied in his youth, and more still from Eragon during their travels together. It was just the application that was giving Murtagh so much trouble.

The most Murtagh had accomplished yet today was making his gedwey ignasia glow dimly. The fist-sized rock he had been trying to lift for the past hour was still stuck resolutely to the ground. No matter what he did, he simply could not get the stone to move. Now the sun was creeping ever closer to the horizon, casting long shadows over the desolate landscape.

"You are not concentrating!" Galbatorix growled, kneading his temples with long, spidery fingers. "It seems I was mistaken in my assessment of your strength. Any novice could easily do what you are failing to accomplish now! Try again!"

Taking a slow, calming breath, Murtagh stuck out his hand over the rock and said, "Stenr reisa."

The stone trembled for a moment, and then was once again immobile.

"Idiot!" cried Galbatorix. "How many times have I told you that it is imperative that you master this quickly? These are the very _basics_ of the magical arts!"

"It would help if you stopped breathing down my neck!" retorted Murtagh. He, too, was rapidly losing patience with himself. He had no idea why he could not do what Galbatorix asked of him. He knew what he had to do, but found that putting the theory into practice entirely impossible. He supposed his lack of faith in his own power didn't help, either, but constant failure had a way of undermining one's confidence.

"Silence," ordered the exasperated king, sending a short, painful crack of power resounding through Murtagh's body. Murtagh was so accustomed to the pain that he barely noticed it now.

"I can see that is the best we are going to accomplish today," continued Galbatorix. "I must say, Murtagh, you have disappointed me." The two of them crossed to an outdoor terrace, where their evening meal was waiting: roast pheasant for Murtagh and Galbatorix and a side of raw beef for Shruikan. "Come and eat dinner, then you are to get some sleep. We will try again in the morning." Galbatorix gave Murtagh an icy glare. "I hope, for your sake, that you are more successful then."

As they ate their evening meal, a question that had sat at the back of Murtagh's mind all day rose to his lips. "Why do you eat meat?" he asked Galbatorix.

"Shouldn't I?" asked the king.

"The books I've been reading have mentioned several times that the elves and Dragon Riders of old refuse to eat it."

Galbatorix scoffed. "The elves, pathetic sentimental creatures that they are, refuse to partake of the meat on principle. Their childish morals prevent them from consuming the flesh of animals whose minds they have shared, but I see no problem with it. Eat all you will. You will need to keep your strength up." Galbatorix took a slice of roasted pheasant from his own plate, chewing it thoughtfully. "Tomorrow, your training will intensify. I have no time to continue teaching you such basic spells. I will have to lend you strength so that you will be able to master the spells that will actually be of use to you."

Murtagh ate quickly, gulping down the last of his water. He was eager to get away from both Galbatorix and Shruikan. His head was pounding, and he wanted to check on Thorn one last time before bed.

"That won't be necessary," said Galbatorix suddenly, interrupting Murtagh's thoughts. At Murtagh's quizzical glance, the king continued, "I forgot to tell you – Thorn woke up earlier this afternoon. I believe he is already in the meadow outside your suite."

Murtagh gasped, inhaling a rather large amount of water. Coughing, he glared furiously at Galbatorix, who shrugged. With an exasperated sigh, Murtagh pushed himself away from the table and, without a word, dashed northward along the shortcut he had discovered three nights previously.

Murtagh was panting when he reached the meadow, but his excitement spurned him on. Pushing his way through the thick undergrowth, he stepped into the meadow.

Thorn was lying in the hay in the metal structure at the far end of the lawn, his great red wings furled at his sides. He was awake, and Murtagh could see his ruby eyes glittering as he approached.

_You seem smaller,_ said Thorn as Murtagh flopped down in the straw beside him. His voice was a faint whisper than seemed far too small for the massive body that encompassed it.

Murtagh laughed and hugged Thorn around his thick neck. "I shrunk in my last hot bath," he replied. "How do you feel?"

_I feel…strange,_ the dragon said slowly. _My bones have stretched. My body aches._

"He hurt you," said Murtagh furiously. "He promised he wouldn't hurt you." Despite Galbatorix's oft-repeated reassurances, Murtagh couldn't help but feel that something was _off _inside Thorn. His mind seemed different than it had been before the magical growth. Behind Thorn's consciousness, Murtagh could sense a faint but steady undercurrent of whispers that reminded him far too much of the lightless spirit-orbs the king had summoned during the spell.

Wearily, Thorn swung his long neck around so his massive ruby eyes were level with Murtagh's. _Do not worry about me,_ he said. _I will be fine. _

Murtagh kept silent for a long time. He stretched out along Thorn's scaly flank and found that the warmth from the dragon's body kept the night chill entirely at bay. Evening had worn into night as the two lay talking. Murtagh gazed up at the sky, watching the waxing crescent moon lend its light to the grassy meadow. The world was so large, and yet here they were, confined to but one tiny speck of it. Finally, Murtagh said, "I pity you, Thorn."

And why is that?

"You've never known freedom. You've been Galbatorix's prisoner since your birth." Murtagh's voice was low and strained as he continued. "And it's because of me. It's my fault you were born into captivity."

_Don't trouble yourself about it, small one_. Thorn turned and gently nuzzled Murtagh with his head. _I am content._

"You are?"

_Of course. I am with you._


	11. Chapter 11

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 11

Murtagh awoke with the dawn, stretched out beside Thorn's body. It was early April, and this close to the Hadarac Desert, the weather was already growing warmer. Even without that, Murtagh had Thorn's intense body heat to keep him comfortable at night. The soft, warm straw was even better than his bed, and after so long sleeping outdoors, it felt more natural to him.

Murtagh rose and stretched, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Thorn rolled over and got clumsily to his feet, narrowly avoiding tripping over his own wings.

_This is ridiculous, _he said when he was finally free of the confined space. _My body…will not move when I tell it to. _Lifting a massive, tree-like leg awkwardly, Thorn stomped it down again. His sharp claws became lodged in the soft, dewy ground, and he almost toppled over as he pulled his foot free.

"You should lie down," Murtagh said, the concern evident in his voice. He felt terrible. Thorn could barely walk in his new form, and there was nothing he could do to help.

_Nonsense,_ said Thorn, stumbling clumsily over the soft ground. He had grown a further eighteen inches in the last few days, due to the lasting effects of Galbatorix's spell. _I told you, I'm fine. I just need a little…practice. Besides, they're waiting for us. _

Murtagh sighed heavily. "Unfortunately, you're probably right."

The pair rose set off towards the southern border of trees. Murtagh was glad to have discovered the shortcut. Now, instead of having to make the longer trek through the castle corridors, he could walk with Thorn and avoid having to talk to anyone.

Thorn paused when they reached the line of spruce trees. He made to push his way through, sending birds and squirrels rushing, panicked, from their treetop abodes. With a snort, the dragon extricated himself from the thick branches. Taking a great, flying leap, Thorn launched himself into the sky and glided over the crest of trees, waiting for Murtagh on the other side.

It was the first time Murtagh had seen Thorn take to the skies. Even though it had been but a few seconds, the sight of the dragon in flight took his breath away.

"Show-off," Murtagh said with smile, as he was left pushed his way through the thick undergrowth.

_I cannot help the fact that I have wings and you do not,_ laughed Thorn, and they traipsed together back to the outdoor terrace. Thorn was still unsteady on his feet, but after a minute or so, he seemed to develop a rhythm that made walking in the soft grass easier.

Early morning had always been Murtagh's favourite time of day. The dewdrops on the long blades of grass refracted the dawn light, making the ground sparkle incessantly. The sweet morning air was cool, and felt crisp and clean on his throat at he inhaled deeply. Trees were just beginning to bud, their pink and white flowers hiding the nesting birds. It was a beautiful sight.

Murtagh and Thorn rounded the last corner, and saw that Galbatorix and Shruikan were waiting for them as usual, two blemishes on the perfect landscape.

Murtagh felt Shruikan's immense consciousness roll over him as they approached. _You're awake, hatchling_, he observed. _Hurry up._ _I have much to teach you, now that you can fly like a proper dragon._

_Yes, Master Shruikan,_ replied Thorn. Shruikan gave a superior sort of snort and the two dragons launched themselves into the air.

_I will see you this evening, Murtagh_, Thorn called back. Within moments, they were out of sight.

Murtagh stood for a moment, watching the spot on the horizon where Thorn and Shruikan had disappeared. He could not delay forever, though; after a moment Galbatorix sent a sharp shock of pain across their mental link. "Pay attention," he snapped irritably. It seemed the king was often irritable. "I asked you a question."

"What?" asked Murtagh, quickly shaking away the remnants of his pain.

"I said, would you like to visit the weapons stores today? It is time you chose a new dagger." Galbatorix leaned down and tugged Drac'ner from its boot-sheath. "I'm sure I can find you one that is just as fine as Drac'ner."

"Yes," replied, Murtagh, somewhat sullenly. "I suppose it is time." As much as he wanted a new dagger, Drac'ner had had sentimental value to him. Choosing another knife would be like throwing away his last memory of Tornac.

"Cheer up, Murtagh, I am giving you a gift," said Galbatorix, his tone verging on sarcastic. He slid Drac'ner back into his boot. "Don't tell me you still miss that old fool. What's done is done. More to the point, a dagger is a necessary weapon. You need another, and you need it soon. We will go to the armoury after breakfast."

Murtagh ate quickly, hardly tasting the food. When he finished, Galbatorix lead him through several side passages, avoiding the halls packed with Galbatorix's fawning servants. Murtagh had learned early on that Galbatorix cared little for his subjects, and preferred to avoid them whenever possible. Their route to the armoury was considerably shorter when they were not stopped every other step by people asking how they could serve their king.

Murtagh knew the way to the armoury already, but today he and Galbatorix approached it by a route opposite the one Murtagh had previously followed. Rather than taking the main southern corridor, as Murtagh had once done, they descended a narrow, seldom used spiral staircase, lined with the burnt-out stumps of torches in wrought-iron brackets. As they passed, Galbatorix waved his hand wordlessly and the torches sprang to life, the tongues of flame casting deep shadows into the corners of the dusty stairs. Murtagh heard the telltale skittering of mice as they scurried away from the light.

With Galbatorix's soft murmur of, "Deyja," the skittering stopped and the stairwell was silent once more.

The two of them rounded a final corridor and the doors to the armoury came into sight. Unlike many of the other doors in the castle, these were of heavy iron, designed to keep safe the fortune in weapons concealed behind them.

The guard stationed at the doors sunk to his knees in a deep genuflect as Murtagh and Galbatorix approached. "Announce me," the king ordered shortly, and the man immediately complied, throwing open the doors.

"His Imperial Majesty," the guard said loudly, his voice carrying over the chatter inside the room, which abruptly fell silent. Galbatorix entered, followed closely by Murtagh.

Though Murtagh had visited the armoury on several occasions, he had not grown immune to its splendour. Hundreds upon hundreds of different weapons were hung all around the cavernous room. There was a wall entirely dedicated to wicked-looking polearms: deadly spears, lances and halberds that had been crafted by the Empire's master smiths. On the opposite wall hung swords of every size and shape. Full suits of plate armour and chain mail lined the long room, like soldiers standing at attention. It was not so much an armoury as a collection of rare and wondrous art.

The many servants that had been in the armoury cleaning departed quickly as Galbatorix and Murtagh entered, leaving the room empty except for a stocky, muscular man with sparse salt-and-pepper hair and a round, ruddy face. He approached them calmly, and Murtagh was surprised to see the man did not sink to his knees before the king; instead they clasped hands after a short bow.

"What can I do for you today, Majesty?" the man asked.

"My apprentice has need of a dagger," answered Galbatorix.

"I'll show you to our finest knives immediately, sire," said the older man. He led them to the back of the armoury, where dozens of daggers were laid out on silk cushions.

"Take your pick Murtagh," encouraged Galbatorix. "I'll leave this decision up to you."

Nodding, Murtagh surveyed his options. They were all beautiful, and they would all serve their purpose, but he was looking for something special.

Passing over many of the daggers, Murtagh halted when he came across one of the boot-knives, laid out on a red cushion. The hilt was plain, wrapped in black wire, which stood out among the showy gold and silver of many of the other knives. A small multi-hued opal was set into the pommel. Picking it up, Murtagh examined the dagger closely. The tempering was smooth, the tapered blade simple and elegant. Placing the cross-guards on his finger, Murtagh was impressed to see that the dagger was perfectly balanced. Running his thumb across the tip, he checked the edge, wincing slightly as the razor-sharp blade sliced cleanly through the skin. A smear of his blood stained the polished steel scarlet.

"I'll take this one," he said, turning back to Galbatorix and the armourer.

"An excellent choice," agreed the king.

"His name is Argedauth," said the other man, "though you are free to change it if you wish." He pulled a cleaning cloth from his pocket and handed it to Murtagh, who wiped the blade clean and slid it into his right boot, where, until recently, Drac'ner had always resided.

Galbatorix nodded his approval. "I am glad you are satisfied, Murtagh," he said, then turned to the armourer. "I'm afraid we must take our leave. My student and I have other things we must attend to." He gave Murtagh a stern, pointed glare.  
Murtagh's stomach leaped. He had almost forgotten how little progress he was making in learning magic. Galbatorix had been furious with his failure the previous evening, though he seemed since to have mellowed.

It was strange, Murtagh thought, how Galbatorix's moods were constantly changing. One minute he was cool and distant, and then the next he was gentle, almost kind. At the smallest provocation, he would spin into a rage. His temper was completely unpredictable, but one thing was sure: the king definitely kept Murtagh on his toes.

"Until next time then, Majesty," replied the man, bowing again. Galbatorix turned and headed back across the armoury to the main doors.

About the middle of the room, Murtagh spotted a large metal door that he had not noticed on their way in. "What's in there?" he asked.

"Those are some of my greatest treasures," said Galbatorix with a small smile. "I believe I would like you to see them."

Murtagh was confused. He did not understand why Galbatorix would want him to see what were surely just piles of gold or jewels. Nothing like that could amaze him, not after the marvels of the armoury.

They made for the door, and upon closer inspection, Murtagh was surprised to see that there was no lock, or even a handle.

"This door is spelled so that none but myself can open it," explained Galbatorix, and he placed his palm on the spot where the lock should have been. The door glowed bright for a second, and then swung inwards to reveal a wondrous sight.

Hundreds of Rider's swords.

Murtagh gaped. He knew that, after the fall of the Riders, Galbatorix had taken several of their swords into his possession, but he had no idea that he had so many. The chamber was set up like a sort of treasure room, swords of every imaginable colour hanging beside their matching scabbards. Their hues ranged from dull brown and grey to vivid yellow, violet and emerald, even a bright, shocking magenta. Light from the flameless lanterns caught and reflected on the gemstones in the hilts of the swords, making the whole room sparkle.

Wandering along a row of blades, Murtagh read the names engraved on small plaques beneath each of them: they were beautiful, deadly combinations of art and weapon.

One sword near the door caught Murtagh's eye. The blade was a deep, shining blue, and the gem in the pommel glittered in the lantern light. Leaning closer, he read the name engraved on the bronze square beside it: _Undbitr. _The sword seemed familiar to him, though he was sure he had never seen it before.

"You recognize the colour, don't you?" said Galbatorix softly. "Of course, you're thinking of the wrong Saphira."

At the mention of the name, Murtagh remembered meeting up with the three of them – Eragon, Saphira, and Brom – and how he had saved Eragon from the Ra'zac but had been forced to watch as Brom succumbed to his wounds. How he had learned, shortly after Brom's death, that he had been none other than Brom the Dragon Rider. How Eragon's Saphira had shared her name with Brom's dragon. But surely, that could only mean –

"You are correct, Murtagh," said Galbatorix, interrupting his thoughts. "This sword belonged to the man who killed your father."

Murtagh felt hot with anger at the mention of Morzan. He had hated the man ever since he was old enough to understand what hate was.

"I had long since completed my training with the Riders by the time Morzan and Brom came along, of course," said Galbatorix. "But your father told me later that Brom was quite besotted with him when they were boys. Pathetic, really – he followed your father around like a lovesick puppy. Brom never did follow Morzan to me, though – a pity. I could have used a Rider of his strength. No, he had to go and kill my most loyal ally." Galbatorix shook his head. "Such a waste. But I don't need Morzan anymore. Not when I have you, Murtagh. You, who have the potential to outstrip his accomplishments by far."

Murtagh shifted uncomfortably where he stood. When the king made no move to stop him, he edged away and heading to the other end of the chamber, as far away from Galbatorix as possible.

At the head of the room, on its own stone dais, lay a single sword, resting on a black velvet cloth and surrounded by flickering candles. It was icy blue, almost as pale as the sword Galbatorix had used during their practice duel. The hue was so cold it made Murtagh shiver.

Unsure if he were allowed to proceed, Murtagh glanced back to Galbatorix, who still lingered in the doorway. In response, Galbatorix nodded, and gave Murtagh a slight push with his mind. Murtagh complied, and leaned closer to the blade.

It was of middling length, and quite broad. The hilt was long, wrapped in alternating silver and black wire. A small tongue of fire was etched just below it, in stark contrast to the chill inspired by the colour. Reaching out tentatively, he traced the symbol with his thumb.

His grey eyes wide, Murtagh turned back to Galbatorix, whose face remained expressionless. His voice, however, was heavy and downcast, as if it pained him to say the words. "You guessed correctly Murtagh. This is Reona. Once, a long time ago, she was my sword." With one hand, Galbatorix motioned around the room at the other blades. "Now she rests here, with others of her kind. Reona is all that is left of Jarnunvosk, who was once my dragon.

"Jarnunvosk hatched for me when I was ten years old. For decades we were inseparable, closer than any dragon and Rider had ever been. We were exploring the Spine with two of my companions and their dragons when a group of Urgals ambushed us in the night. The cowards tried to run, and were slain. Jarnunvosk and I were the only ones who stayed to fight. It was a bloody battle. We thought we had killed all the Urgals, but a stray arrow pierced my Jarnunvosk through the heart. I was without the arts to save her, and she perished in my arms." Galbatorix's voice, normally low and smooth, cracked at that.

"With what little strength I had left, I built a funeral pyre for her. It sapped my energy, and for days after I could only sleep.

"I have little memory of the weeks that followed. I stayed in the Spine, scavenging for food, though I could find little to sustain myself. I could not think; I had nothing with me but Reona. In time I came to use her as a hunting weapon, gutting the occasional deer for my supper. I had forgotten the use of fire, so I at the meat raw. I lived like a beast, eating when hungry and sleeping when tired. I survived on my instincts alone.

"Jarnunvosk was gone, and my cowardly companions had left me for dead. I was alone in the wilderness. Eventually, I became so hungry that I attacked anything I came upon. Even the Urgals avoided me. I am ashamed to admit that I went mad in there, alone and friendless.

"My one saving grace was Reona. She kept alive my last shred of hope that I would be able to leave that cursed place and rejoin the Riders. I clung to the dream that I would find them, that they would give me another dragon, and that I would be able to begin anew.

"I found them, or rather, they found me.

"It was a farmer that saved my life. I never knew his name. He nursed me back to health until the Riders arrived. They did not need me to tell them what had happened. They took me in, sheltered me, and for a time, my life was good.

"But then, those foolish bastards denied my request for a new dragon. I had only one hope that kept me alive over the months, and they destroyed it. One of their leaders, Oromis, seemed to think there was something _wrong _with me. I nearly had the others convinced, and then he came along and wrapped them around his little finger.

"It matters not, though. Oromis and his dragon are both long dead.

"The Elders abandoned me after that. I was alone again, and it was their fault. Just as it was their fault that Jarnunvosk was killed."

Murtagh had been so entranced by Galbatorix's story that he had not noticed as the king crept up behind him, silent as a cat. He jumped as Galbatorix rested a hand on his shoulder.

"Don't you see, Murtagh?" Galbatorix said. "It was all their doing. For years I had asked for further instruction, to be taken deeper into the realm of magic, but the Elders refused. Had they not been so ignorant of magic's true potential, had they taught me what I knew I was ready to learn, I could have had the power to save my Jarnunvosk.

"Instead I have only Reona."

Galbatorix gazed down at the sword on the raised platform. He stroked the blade fondly, and then, to Murtagh's astonishment, drew his wrist sharply across the edge.

Crimson blood spattered along the blade, dark flecks on the pale surface. Showing no hint of pain, Galbatorix knelt, and said, "A parting gift, my friend. You are the Reaper; it is your due. May you rest peacefully, until I see you again."

Murtagh was unsure of what to do. Galbatorix knelt in a silent, almost prayerful state for a few moments, hands folded reverently. He then rose, blood still trickling from his wrist. Making no effort to stem the flow, he simply strode to the door and left the room without another word.

Murtagh followed. It was the only thing he could do.

* * *

A/N: Added a good-sized chunk about Brom's sword, since it seemed likely that Galbatorix would have retrieved it. I think I'm liking how the adjustments are turning out so far.

- Miss Maddie


	12. Chapter 12

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 12

Murtagh and Galbatorix walked in silence for what seemed like ages. They passed no one; for once the halls were empty.

Murtagh could hardly believe that Galbatorix had divulged such a secret to him. This was a weakness that his enemies would kill to find out, something the Varden could use against him. Why would he tell Murtagh, someone he barely trusted to begin with?

"Do you really want to know why I told you this, Murtagh?" asked Galbatorix finally. "Something I have told no one before you?" Pulling him over to a small, torch-lit niche in the wall, Galbatorix looked him dead in the eye, and Murtagh was ashamed to discover that he could not meet his gaze. He turned his head and glared at the flagstone floor.

Galbatorix took Murtagh's chin in his hand and gently lifted it. "Look at me, please," he said. Murtagh found himself obeying. "I told you my history because I want you to trust me – trust that I mean you no harm and that I only want what is best for everyone." Galbatorix paused, and for a moment there was something akin to a smile on his face. "I have no desire for your friendship, nor any reason to expect I will get it, but want you to enjoy your time here, enjoy the power I have given you. I don't want you to feel that you are a prisoner." Galbatorix's smile grew wider, and his black eyes glinted in the torchlight. "I do not want my allies to suffer unduly on my account."

"Then give me my freedom."

"You know why I can't do that. I need you, Murtagh. Alagaesia needs you."

_That is the problem with Galbatorix,_ thought Murtagh. _He does not think himself a tyrant. He truly believes what he is doing is right. _

Murtagh did not want to trust Galbatorix. He did not want to pity him, and yet he found himself doing just that. There was some quality in his black eyes, something about the way he spoke that made Murtagh want desperately to believe him. It did not help that his system of imperial rule was perfectly sound. It was the man, and not the leadership that was corrupt.

Finally forcing himself to meet Galbatorix's penetrating black stare, Murtagh knew he had no need to voice his thoughts. Why speak, when Galbatorix knew everything that crossed his mind?

"You must try again, Murtagh," continued Galbatorix, and it took Murtagh a moment to realize what he meant. "You must succeed. For the good of the Empire, you must master magic. If not for the Empire, then do it for yourself. Think of what you will be able to accomplish, if only you could master this simple task."

Murtagh nodded slowly. "I want to try again."

"Excellent," replied Galbatorix with another genuine smile. "Follow me, Murtagh."

Murtagh did as he was bid, and Galbatorix led him further down the halls to the small door that was rapidly becoming familiar.

Galbatorix seemed to be steering him along. Murtagh's legs moved, but his mind was still on the staggering things Galbatorix had told him that day. Murtagh supposed that the king really wanted to be trusted if he would dare tell Murtagh all that he had.

Murtagh let Galbatorix guide him down the hall until they arrived once again at the stone staicase that entered onto the wide, grassy field. The rock he had been trying to lift the previous day was still exactly where it had been, as if it had been waiting for Murtagh to return. He stood over the stone, left hand at the ready.

"Clear your mind," instructed Galbatorix, "and focus your attention on the task at hand. There is nothing in the world except you and that stone."

Murtagh felt his mind empty, forcing himself to put aside the things he had been told. He let his thoughts become a dark, calm void. He ignored even Galbatorix's presence in his mind. There was only Murtagh, and he was doing solely this for his own benefit. Not the king's, and not anyone else's. In that moment, Galbatorix did not exist.

Murtagh's outstretched hand began to glow as he reached inside himself and found the glowing well that was his newfound power, his inner essence. Calling on the magic, Murtagh let it fill his entire being. His hand glowed brighter still, until it was almost painful to look at.

"Say it," ordered Galbatorix.

"Stenr reisa."

There was no pause this time; it happened almost instantaneously. It was painfully slow at first, but then the stone rose faster, until it was hovering at Murtagh's eye level.

"Move it around in a circle."

Galbatorix barely had time to say the words before the stone was circling Murtagh's head at a dizzying speed. It seemed to obey Murtagh's sheer force of will rather than his direct command.

"Stop."

The stone came to an abrupt halt in front of Murtagh's face. He savoured the feeling of magic flowing out of him for one last moment before letting the stone fall to the ground, where it still quivered slightly.

"I knew you could do it, Murtagh," exclaimed Galbatorix. "I so hoped that you would have the strength. However, there are a few more things I would like to teach you."

Murtagh nodded, still slightly overwhelmed at what he had accomplished. The magic still thrummed through his body, waiting to be unleashed once again.

"For the most part, magic is not nearly as complex as people seem to think," said Galbatorix. "There are only two rules that, however basic, are the most important parts of the entire concept. The first is that magic is controlled through the use of the ancient language, as you already know. Though it is not absolutely necessary when casting the spell, it simplifies the matter a great deal. Every single thing in the world has a true name in the ancient language. If the name is known, the thing can be controlled."

Murtagh knew only too well how that part of the magic worked; both he and Thorn were enslaved through the knowledge of their true names.

"The second and most important rule of magic is that it takes the same toll on your body as would doing the task without magic," continued Galbatorix. "For example, I had to rest after growing Thorn because of the difficulty of the spell. Magic could leave you weakened, like that, or unconscious. It can even kill you if you attempt certain spells before you are ready."

"You mean, the spell I did the other day, _brisingr_, and this just now – those could have killed me?" Murtagh gaped.

"Highly unlikely," replied Galbatorix, in a disturbingly offhand manner. "Both of those spells are extremely simple. Even a novice can do them without suffering any adverse effects.

"Now that you know the rules, let us move on," said Galbatorix, and the two of them sat down on the soft grass. "The mastery of practical magic will doubtless take you some time, especially since you are not yet fluent in the ancient language. Have you been reading those books I set out for you?"

"A little."

"Well, you should continue to read, especially in the ancient language. No doubt the Compendium I gave you will help as well."

"The what?"

"Did you not see the book? It contained thousands of words and phrases in the ancient language, translated into the common speech."

"Oh, that," said Murtagh, recalling what he had first taken to be a dictionary. "Yes, it was very helpful."

"That was a Compendium of Language," said Galbatorix. "Compendia are written on many different subjects, but the ones pertaining to the ancient language are particularly rare."

For the next few hours, Murtagh and Galbatorix practiced spells of every variety imaginable. Murtagh conjured fire and water, he moved rocks and other small objects, and he even learned one of the twelve words of death. Murtagh caught on especially quickly to the art of healing with magic, the cut Galbatorix had given him scarring over almost in the same instant he said the words.

There was so much take in, he doubted he would remember it all, but he was happy simply to be using his power. Even with these simple spells, the magic building up inside of him was released.

The power was exhilarating. It was a relief to know that he could do what he set his mind to, and that his first attempt at 'brisingr' hadn't been a fluke after all. Murtagh hated feeling inadequate, and relished in his current success.

Murtagh found that as the time wore on, the spells became easier to learn, but he was also getting tired. So much magic in so little time had sapped his energy. Murtagh's limbs were growing heavy and stiff, and it was not until Galbatorix offered him another sip of faelnirv, the elven liquor, that he felt like himself again.

The sun was getting lower in the sky when Galbatorix suggested they try something else. "Scrying," he said, "Is an extremely useful branch of magic, that enables the user to see the current state of something he has seen in the past. There is, however, a drawback, as one cannot scry something he has not seen before. If you were to scry your sword, for example, you would see it sitting on the weapons rack in your suite. But, if scried Thorn and Shruikan, you would see only them, but not their surroundings, as you have never before seen where they are. Do you understand?"

"I think so," said Murtagh. "What do I have to do?"

"Scrying usually requires something reflective, such as a pool of water or a mirror. Since we have neither, I will hold the water in place while you attempt to scry in it. You must simply concentrate on what you wish to see, and then say the words 'draumr kopa,' which mean 'dream stare.'

"What should I scry?"

"Can you think of nothing? No one you wish to see?"

Murtagh gulped. Of course there was one person he wanted to see more than anything, but how could he do that to Eragon, when Murtagh had already done so much to betray him?

"Do it, Murtagh," Galbatorix encouraged. "I, too, would like to see what your brother is up to."

Knowing there was nothing he could do to avoid scrying Eragon, Murtagh collected his thoughts as Galbatorix conjured a small pool of water. Focusing only on his memories of his brother, Murtagh slowly whispered, "Draumr kopa."

He stared intently at the pool of water, as it changed from clear to inky black. He expected there to be more, but there was only absolute darkness. Ceasing the flow of magic, Murtagh asked, "Did I do something wrong?"

"Hardly," replied Galbatorix. "I should have known he would have some sort of protection against magical observation. The rebels would not be as careless as to leave their Rider without wards. You, too, are shielded from the effects of scrying."

"I am?" asked Murtagh, surprised.

Galbatorix nodded. "The Twins cast a spell on you before they brought you here."

"So if Eragon were to scry me, he would see only…"

"Darkness, just as you have seen."

Murtagh was unsure as to whether that was good or bad. He wanted to know if Eragon was all right, but did not wish to give Galbatorix that information as well. On the other hand, if Eragon could not scry him, what would he assume?

"I think that is enough for today, Murtagh," said Galbatorix as he stood and stretched. Shruikan and Thorn should return at any moment, and then you may return to your rooms after we eat. Your body needs rest after this much magic."

As if on cue, Shruikan and Thorn appeared over the crest of land at the horizon, an immense black form followed by a smaller red one. They swooped down on Galbatorix and Murtagh, Thorn stumbling somewhat as he banked on the grass.

_I am pleased to report that my student is progressing to my satisfaction_, said Shruikan, his deep voice rumbling through Murtagh's consciousness. _He demonstrates a natural talent for flight that I found surprising given his…disability._

"Well done, Thorn," exclaimed Galbatorix. "I know Shruikan would never give you undue praise."

With a snort that sent a jet of sparks billowing into the air, Shruikan launched himself skyward. As he winged his way east toward the hills, Murtagh and Thorn left Galbatorix and set off northward towards their meadow. Thorn glided low overhead; he seemed to find flying easier than walking in his new body. His great, slightly transparent wings seemed to glow scarlet in the light of the setting sun.

Thorn was beautiful when he flew. Murtagh could not wait to join him.


	13. Chapter 13

Thorn and Misery -Chapter 13

The next two weeks passed in a flood of fascinating new learning. Murtagh spent his days training in the magical arts with Galbatorix, sometimes in the company of Thorn and Shruikan, in the field that was becoming Murtagh's practice arena. Rocks of various sizes sat in small piles all around, the remnants of Murtagh's attempts at the spell 'stenr reisa.' Bales of hay, used for target practice, were spaced out at even intervals further down the field. Several of them were blackened, the result of a fireball that had slipped from Murtagh's control. Others were peppered with small holes, as if they had been attacked with crossbow bolts. It was not man-made weapons that had caused these wounds. It had been Murtagh, driving pebbles through the hay bales at lethal speeds.

The work left Murtagh bone-weary, too tired even to dream. It was all he could do to curl up beside Thorn each night and hope to get enough sleep to last him through the next day. Thorn learned about flying and aerial combat from Shruikan, and he was usually even more exhausted than Murtagh when they met in the meadow after their training.

Murtagh was growing steadily more proficient at magic and its many applications. The work came naturally to him, and he was astounded at how simple it was if one knew what he was doing.

He had quickly realized that it was his intent, and not the words themselves, that controlled the flow of magic. Even a word as basic as 'letta,' when aimed directly at the heart, could drop an enemy like a stone quicker than any arrow. It was a technique that required pinpoint accuracy but little physical strength.

Though his vocabulary was gradually increasing, the result of the reading he did whenever he could find the time, Murtagh found that he preferred the use of simple words in his spells. There was less of a margin for error when using a single word rather than a long, complex phrase.

Murtagh relished the power that magic offered him. The feeling of truly manipulating matter and energy, rather than using potions or other magical objects as he had seen done by lesser magicians, was something unlike Murtagh had ever experienced. It sharpened his senses and heightened his awareness, even more so than the battle lust he usually felt while fighting. Although the use of gramarye, as magic was properly called, sapped Murtagh's strength, the high he felt while channelling his power more than made up for the exhaustion he felt afterwards.

Since his failed attempt at seeing Eragon, Galbatorix had encouraged Murtagh to try scrying again. He had, after only a few tries, succeeded in conjuring an image of Thorn and Shruikan in a bowl of water. Though it was unnerving to watch the two dragons whirl across a blank black canvas, he found solace in watching them for long minutes at a time, before Galbatorix pulled his attention elsewhere. He would lose himself in the graceful motion, and felt himself swell with pride whenever Thorn mastered a particularly difficult move.

Galbatorix had also urged Murtagh to try using magic without speaking aloud, but Murtagh found he had little skill at it. The technique required intense focus and concentration, lest an errant thought changed the nature of the spell entirely, and Murtagh preferred simply saying the words aloud. Non-verbal magic was not a practice that could be perfected while one's mind was on dinner.

Some of Murtagh's favourite spells were those that could be used against attackers. He was unused to the feeling of being able to bring down his enemies without even lifting a sword, but found he enjoyed it immensely. He was especially fond of the technique of compressing air into a solid ball. It was the same spell that the Twins had used on him when they had extracted his oaths of fealty, and Murtagh felt some satisfaction in the knowledge that it would never again be used against him.

For the most part, Murtagh found that Galbatorix was pleased with his continued success. The king rarely snapped at him now, and the punishment blows came less and less often as the days of almost constant practice wore on.

One evening, when Murtagh returned to his rooms after a particularly gruelling day of training, he was surprised to find a folded piece of paper, a small leather pouch and a brace of gleaming silver wrist knives sitting on his bed. He picked up the paper, upon which was written a note in narrow, slanted handwriting.

_To my apprentice,_

_Congratulations on your recent success. If you wish, you may go into the city. Show this message to the guards; they will let you in without question. There is enough gold in the purse for you to buy food, and whatever else you may wish. As well, I leave you these knives. Take them to the city, and bring no other weapons. Be back one hour after sunset, and try not to get into any trouble. _

_King Galbatorix_

Murtagh was intrigued. He had been to the city before, of that it was a particularly pleasant place; Uru'baen was a cesspool of filth and decay. The streets, even the main ones, were ripe with the stench of human existence. Open sewers lay rank and stinking, worse still in the sweltering heat of spring and summer. The poor huddled together around small fires in doorways, sending their hollow-eyed, bony children out to beg for coin from passers-by. Thieves and cutpurses ran amok. The rich, stupid nobility seemed to be their prime target, constantly losing their coin to the wily crooks of the city.

Still, it was a welcome change from the opulence of Galbatorix's palace.

Deciding a visit would be worth his time, Murtagh tugged Argedauth from his boot and placed it carefully on the weapons rack beside his hand-and-a-half sword. He felt strange without the two weapons, but it was necessary that he leave them behind. To openly carry a blade among the beggars and brawlers of Uru'baen was to invite death. Murtagh strapped the brace of knives around his right wrist and pulled his sleeve up to cover them.

Glancing outside, he saw that the sky was just beginning to turn dark with the onset of evening. Thorn would be out with Shruikan for some time yet; the dragon's training schedule was even more rigorous than Murtagh's.

Tucking the leather purse into his belt, Murtagh left his suite and proceeded through the tunnel that led to the east wing of the palace. It was rife with activity tonight, servants, nobles and dignitaries of every kind traipsing up and down the halls to their various duties. Turning down a hallway to his right, Murtagh passed several liveried messengers, delivering notes written on scraps of paper. There were even more servants about. It seemed the palace was constantly being cleaned.

Leaving the palace out the obnoxiously huge and forbidding spiked iron gates, Murtagh saw that it had not much changed since his first stay in Uru'baen. Troops of heavily armed soldiers clad in leather and chain mail marched up and down the cobbled road, their hefty spears presenting deadly obstacles to any would-be attackers. They glanced his way but made no move to stop him as he passed.

Murtagh walked down the long road, the cobbles soon giving way to bare dirt. He passed a surprising number of carriages; there were even a few people heading to the palace on horseback.

He had not been walking very long when he arrived at the city gates. Pulling Galbatorix's note from his pocket, Murtagh showed it to one of the guards, who scanned it briefly before letting him in with a curt nod. This made Murtagh smile to himself; he doubted the man could even read. Only the most important merchants and dignitaries in the city were literate; a lowly gatekeeper would have no opportunity to acquire that skill.

Murtagh navigated the cramped, dusty streets of Uru'baen, avoiding the pickpockets and tavern brawls. He wandered without purpose, idly gazing into shop windows, or at carts stationed at even intervals along the cobbled road. Shifty-eyed peddlers that were not so fortunate as to obtain carts were left to offer their wares from street corners, or at the mouths of dark alleyways.

Murtagh kept to the main shops as he appraised the items for sale. Shoemakers and clothiers called out raucously to passing women, pushing their goods on unsuspecting countryfolk. People milled around the booths, scrutinizing bolts of cloth or inspecting the quality of leather goods.

Murtagh then passed a wide section of vendors selling food and wine. The scents coming from their stalls made Murtagh's mouth water, and he stopped for a moment to purchase a meat pie from an elderly vendor.

Murtagh ate the tender, flavourful pie and continued on. He passed countless merchants that sold jewellery and works of art, and more still advertised small, expensive trinkets.

As he passed one rickety stall, Murtagh did a double-take. There, on a little cushion, was a tiny model of a crimson dragon that looked exactly like Thorn. Picking up the figure, Murtagh inspected it from all sides. The figure even had Thorn's fierce red eyes. The resemblance was uncanny.

"Can I interest you in that little gem, dearie?"

Murtagh jumped. A middle-aged woman no taller than his elbow stood up from her stool, but she was so tiny that standing made little difference. Murtagh had not even seen her sitting behind her cart. Her chestnut hair was streaked with grey and pulled severely back into a knot at the base of her neck. She had an odd, slightly surprised look about her, and it took Murtagh a moment to realize that she had shaved her eyebrows completely off and painted perfect black arches in their place.

"Something to sweeten a lady friend?" she prompted. "They go mad for this sort of thing I hear, now that the dragons are back about."

Murtagh choked suddenly, but covered it up by pretending to cough. "What did you say?" trying desperately to make his voice sound normal.

"Don't fool with an old lady, dearie. You must've heard the rumours. The traders from down southeast are coming in with all sorts of talk about how the dragons and Riders are back in the Empire."

Murtagh gulped – It could only be Eragon and Saphira. What were they doing, letting themselves be seen?

"Your talk verges on treachery, Mistress," said Murtagh slowly, gauging the woman's reaction. "You wouldn't want to let the soldiers hear you. They would lead even someone like you to the gallows for saying the wrong thing."

"Oh, that don't bother me, dearie," she said. "I'm just an old maid; there's little life left in me anyway. I hardly believe the talk myself, but it keeps business moving. Which reminds me, are you buying or not?" She pointed to the dragon figurine in Murtagh's hand.

"Yes, yes, I'll take it," Murtagh said hurriedly, pulling out pouch of money and handing over a silver piece in exchange for the model, which he pocketed. Saluting the woman with a wave of his hand, he continued off down the crowded streets.

As Murtagh rounded a corner, he passed a group of women whose profession was unmistakeable. They waved at him and called out, but he paid them no notice.

Murtagh's wandering brought him around another corner, and he came across a small, dark tavern. A sign over the door identified it as the Cracked Keg. Murtagh had never much cared for spirits, but he decided to go in anyway, just for something to do. A bell chimed as he walked in. Murtagh settled himself at the long bar, ordering a tankard of ale from the busty barmaid who had been shooting him surreptitious glances since he entered. Slapping a few copper pieces on the counter, he glanced around at the other patrons, unimpressed with what he saw. A group of five or six rowdy men gambled at dice in the corner booth, surrounded by empty tankards and laughing drunkenly. The only other customer was a young man, perhaps fifteen or sixteen, sitting alone at the end of the bar, an untouched tankard of ale in front of him. He stared blankly at the opposite wall, his eyes glazed over. Murtagh paid them no attention as he sat and sipped his ale, which tasted surprisingly better than the stuff he remembered.

Murtagh's tankard was nearly empty when the barmaid approached him again. "Anything else I can get you, love?" she asked.

"No, thank you," Murtagh replied. Looking out one of the small windows, he saw that the sun had already set. It was time to return to the palace.

"You sure?" the barmaid asked, flipping her blonde ringlets over her shoulder. "You look like a man in need of a woman's…_services_," she whispered suggestively. She wrapped her lithe arms brazenly around Murtagh's broad shoulders. "Rest assured, I can provide them." She eyed his dark hair and muscular frame hungrily, as if he were something to eat.

Murtagh wrenched himself from the sultry blonde's grasp. "I said, no thank you," he said coldly. He stood and made for the door, only to find that the gamblers had risen from their booth in the corner to block the exit.

"Whatcha turnin' down the good lady's offer for, stranger?" one of them asked, his putrid, drink-ridden breath blowing straight into Murtagh's face. "S'not every day the lovely Lark bids herself to a man."

Murtagh remained silent. These drunken pigs were not worth his time.

"What's caught 'old of yer tongue, then, pretty boy?" demanded the man.

One of his hulking companions stepped forward and guffawed stupidly. "Bet he thinks he's too good ter go associatin' wiv us common folk, eh, Lars?"

The first man, Lars, cracked his knuckles in what Murtagh assumed was meant to be a menacing manner. "Well, seems we should teach 'im a lesson in humility, boys."

Murtagh sighed. These fools were going to make him late. Calmly, he flicked his wrist and one of his many hidden daggers slid upwards into his palm. His wrist-knives were his only weapons, but they would surely be enough to discourage them.

"Get out of my way." Simple and to the point; he doubted the men would understand anything else. Galbatorix had explicitly told him not to get into trouble, but these idiots were taking his patience to its limit. They presented little obstacle for him; he could easily dispatch such a small group of men, no matter their size. There was just the matter of doing it without making a mess.

Murtagh noticed that the barmaid had disappeared. Brawls were doubtless a regular occurrence here.

The drunkards lunged at him, thinking they could overwhelm him with their superior size and numbers. Darting aside, Murtagh ducked and rolled so that his back was to the door. He did not want to be cornered in the cramped tavern.

"Come back 'ere an' fight like a man, ye cowardly scum!" bellowed one of the brawlers, shaking his fist. "It's curs like ye what're a disgrace to the bitch that brung ya!"

Murtagh froze. Turning on his attacker, he felt a wave of cold fury wash over his body. His grey eyes glittered with icy hate at the thing that stood before him

The large man belched loudly, to the cheers of his equally corpulent companions. "To chicken even ter fight back!" He laughed. "C'mere, ya little mongrel," he urged. "Come an' run with th' big dogs, if ye've the nerve!"

Murtagh strode silently forward. Looking the drunkard dead in the eye he whispered, "Do not call me a coward."

As calmly as if he had been drinking a mug of ale, Murtagh slit the man's fat throat.

Great gouts of blood spurted from the man's neck, sliced open from ear to ear, leaving thin red streaks on the on the faded, grimy wallpaper. Murtagh raised a hand to shield his face from the hot, familiar spray of gore. The man wavered on his feet for a fraction of a second before his hefty form crumpled and fell to the ground with a resounding crash.

He was dead before he hit the floor.

The fallen man's comrades stood silent in shock, terror evident on their slack-jawed faces. They were struck dumb in astonishment, bloodshot eyes wide. Their arguments were resolved with fists, not blades. Murtagh doubted that any of them had ever seen worse than a few broken bones.

There was a moment or two of stunned silence before Lars regained his wits enough to scream, "Murderer! He killed Connor!"

Lars' shout brought the barmaid rushing back in. She stared for a second at the lifeless corpse, her eyes tracing the bloody streaks on the walls, until they fell on Murtagh, his hated-filled eyes and his bloodstained knife. She then released a blood-curdling shriek. Running out the door, she forced her way into the streets screaming, "Murder, murder! Call the guards! There's a killer on the loose! Murder!"

The packed streets shot into a panicked frenzy at the woman's words, finally drawing the dazed brawlers from their stupor. Wildly, they swung at Murtagh, but their fists caught nothing but air as Murtagh felt himself being wrenched backwards.

It was not until he had been pulled through a side door and into a narrow alleyway that Murtagh saw who it was: the boy who had been sitting alone at the bar. The boy looked at him but said nothing as he tugged him, with surprising force, down the alley and through the door to a cramped townhouse.

Throwing Murtagh wordlessly onto a stool, the boy shook his shaggy, light brown hair from his eyes and disappeared up a set of rickety stairs.

As Murtagh caught his breath, he appraised his surroundings. There was nothing in the tiny, filthy room save the stool on which he was sitting and small, wood-burning stove. The floorboards were of raw wood, rotting through in places to provide treacherous footing. The cloying scent of fetid meat permeated the room, coating the inside of Murtagh's mouth, making his throat sting and his eyes water. A single grimy window provided little view of the alley outside.

Checking to see that he still had all of his possessions, Murtagh was relieved to see that his knives and money were still there. Murtagh realized only then that he still held the bloody wrist-knife in his clenched fist. Wiping the blade clean on the hem of his shirt, Murtagh stowed it back in the brace and groped at the pocket where the dragon statuette had been. To his dismay, Murtagh felt nothing. He reached inside, but it only confirmed his suspicions: the figure must have fallen from his pocket during the fight.

The sound of footsteps signalled Murtagh to the return of the young man. This time he was not alone. He was helping a wizened old woman down the stairs, her wrinkled hand clenched around a knobbly cane. Her skin was thin and translucent, deep lines and creases etched permanently around her nearly toothless mouth. Her eyes were sunken and dull, and one of them seemed not to see at all. It stared blankly at the opposite wall, somewhere over Murtagh's shoulder. The old crone moved slowly and awkwardly, but not without purpose.

The youth brought the old woman over to Murtagh, who stunned him by delivering a sharp, smarting wallop with her cane to his ribs.

"Ow!" cried Murtagh, more out of shock than actual pain.

"That's fer bein' stupid," she drawled through a thick citywoman's accent.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yer mad, then, aren't ye?" demanded the old crone, not bothering to explain her strange antics. "Killin' a man as done ye no harm?"

"He called me a coward," replied Murtagh sullenly, understanding now that the boy had told the old woman of the tavern brawl.

"An' I'm callin' ye crack-knobbed fool!" she scolded. "Are ye goin' ter kill me?"

"If my own safety costs another man's life, then so be it," Murtagh responded coolly. "No stranger's life is more important than my own."

"Then I hope yer up ter killin' a lot o' men, sonny," said the woman, a sad frown only deepening her wrinkles. "A'cos that's a creed that'll lead to more murders than jus' this one."

"Look," said Murtagh, quickly growing annoyed at the woman's forward scolding. "I am grateful for your help, but I really must be –"

Murtagh was interrupted by yet another smack to the ribs.

"There ya go, bein' stupid again!" the woman said with a superior smirk. She seemed to be enjoying herself immensely. "The guards'll be down 'ere for a while yet. Killins don't go unnoticed, even in a city as wild as this one. You oughtta know that!"

"I'm…not from around here." Murtagh explained. It was only half a lie.

"I would think so!" She nodded to the boy, who still stood behind her. "Yer just lucky me grandson was there ter pull ya outta the mess." She gave the boy a stern glare out of her one good eye. "Though what he was doin' in that stinkhole of a tavern I'd like ter know."

The boy gave her a sheepish grin before offering his hand to Murtagh. "I'm Adam," he said.

"Murtagh." He shook Adam's proffered hand, and was met with a smile that lit up his whole face. Adam's eyes were a strange hue; they seemed to change from brown to hazel to blue-green and back again in various lights. His strong nose and broad shoulders lent to him an air of maturity, despite his obvious youth.

"I don't understand," Murtagh said. "You would help a murderer?"

"I would help a man who looked to be in very serious trouble," Adam replied. "Besides, Connor deserved it." His eyes darkened as he cast his gaze downwards.

"Don't go talkin' like that, boy," ordered his grandmother. "The gods order forgiveness, you know that."

"Did the gods have their parents killed by that drunken scum?" the boy demanded.

"Connor killed me son an' his wife last autumn," the woman explained, in a surprisingly matter-of-fact tone. "Robbery. Adam's not learned ter accept that yet."

"He's dead now, anyway, thanks to you, Murtagh" said Adam.

Murtagh shook his head emphatically. "It is you and this lady –"

"Mirna."

" – Mirna, who deserve my thanks, but I really should be going. I am already late, and the person waiting for me is not going to be happy that I have strayed this long."

"Well," said Adam, "if you're in that much of a hurry, I suppose you could take the back way. That would get you to the main road, but it really would be safer for you to stay here for a while longer."

"Thank you once again," Murtagh said. "But I'll go."

Leading him to the door, Mirna said. "If yer ever in the city again, look for us."

"I'll do that," said Murtagh, and he turned to go. He was nearly back to the main road when he heard Adam's voice behind him.

"Murtagh! Wait!" he called. Adam ran up beside him, panting, and held out his hand. "I nearly forgot – you dropped this back at the tavern."

In his hand sat the little red dragon.

Murtagh took it from him. "Thank you," said Murtagh. "I thought I'd lost him."

"They're wonderful things, dragons, aren't they?" said Adam almost wistfully. "I only wish I'd seen a real one."

Knowing there was nothing he could say that would not be an outright lie, Murtagh though it best to simply keep silent. He nodded his agreement and tucked the figurine back into his pocket.

"Goodbye, and my thanks again for your help," Murtagh said, and clapped Adam on the shoulder before he disappeared down the alley, around the corner and out of sight.

* * *

A/N: A few changes here, mostly condensing to fix my passage of time issues. Because of the way the changes are shaping up, it's looking liker there are going to be fewer chapters, but the story itself will likely be longer.

- Miss Maddie


	14. Chapter 14

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 14

"What am I going to do with you, Murtagh?" asked Galbatorix, kneading his temples with his fingertips. Murtagh said nothing, gazing sullenly at the marble floor of the throne room. Now that they were back in the dark, forbidding chamber, Murtagh knew he was in trouble. He kept silent as Galbatorix continued.

"You killed a man, Murtagh. A man that had done nothing to harm you. What I am supposed to tell you? Did I not _say_ to stay out of trouble? Did I not _say_ to leave the citymen to themselves?" Staring down at Murtagh from his black throne, Galbatorix's voice was heavy as he asked, "What have you to say for yourself?"

But Murtagh could think of nothing in reply. Of course he didn't know why he had killed the man back at the tavern. It had simply been a reflex, a knee-jerk reaction in the interest of self-defence. He had overreacted, he knew that now, but if an instant's pause could cost him his life in a similar situation, then why hesitate?

Kill first, ask questions later.

It was all rather amusing, in a sick, backwards sort of way.

Murtagh had long since lost count of the number of men he had killed, lives he had ended. It was only a number; Murtagh had forced himself not to give meaning to the faces behind that number. Living the way he had for the past few years, Murtagh had become well-acquainted with the simplest law of life: kill or be killed, take no chances, do what you must to survive. That was the way of the world, and there was nothing he could do to change it.

It was not as though Murtagh enjoyed killing. He had tried to ignore the battle-loving monster in himself, but he knew there was really no point if he needed to protect himself. When Murtagh's own safety was in jeopardy, there was no question as to whose life was more important.

When he did not respond, Galbatorix sent yet another burst of pain into him, something akin to a vicious blow to the face, but Murtagh hardly noticed. There had been so much physical pain lately that he had learned to block it out almost entirely.

Fishing numbly around for an answer to Galbatorix's question, Murtagh finally said, without much conviction, "He insulted me. Insulted my mother. I was simply protecting myself."

"So you killed him?" demanded Galbatorix incredulously. "Murtagh, how can I say this so that you will understand? It was _murder. _You are only lucky that no one knew who you were - that would have been calamitous.

"You are more violent than I could have ever imagined," continued Galbatorix, a lazy half-smile now playing on his lips. "Whatever happened to all those peaceful ideals you once held so dear? You refused to exterminate a city of dangerous rebels, and yet you would kill a man simply because he insulted you? And what's this I hear about beheading an innocent man, whose only crime was that he was unfortunate enough to get in your way?" Galbatorix's smile grew wider as he said, "I wonder what your brother to say to all of this. From what I can gather, you two were quite close."

Murtagh, too, wondered how Eragon would react if he knew. For the most part, they had had an amiable relationship as travelling companions; Murtagh would even go so far as to consider them friends. However, their friendship had suffered a blow on their journey to the Varden when Murtagh had beheaded the slaver, Torkenbrand. Though Eragon had seen this as an unjust and murderous act, Murtagh had killed the man simply to protect himself. Though he had been weaponless, and had died on his knees begging Murtagh for mercy, Torkenbrand's mere existence had been a danger. Murtagh had known he would have reported their presence to higher authorities if he had stayed his hand. I didn't help that Murtagh had always loathed slavers.

"You surprise me, Murtagh." Galbatorix's voice was low, almost a whisper.

"I'm very glad I amused you," snapped Murtagh sharply, his voice heavy with sarcasm. If he was going to be stuck in this place for the rest of his life, he may as well have some fun with it. He wished Galbatorix would get out of his head, though. "Now, if I am not to be punished, may I go? Thorn will be back by now."

"You think you are not to be punished?" gaped Galbatorix. "Murtagh, you broke my rules. What you did demands retribution. I thought I had made it obvious that anger and hate are tools to be used to your advantage, but that hardly means you have leave to so blatantly disobey your overlord." He gestured towards himself with a sickeningly superior sort of flourish. Murtagh had to work to keep from retching.

"You are not to enter the city of Uru'baen again, Murtagh, is that clear?"

Murtagh nodded sullenly. He had expected as much.

"Swear it!" barked Galbatorix. "I want your word, in the ancient language, that you will never leave the palace again without my consent. You will not go anywhere without the express permission of Shruikan or myself." Galbatorix looked down at Murtagh, his lips pressed so tightly together that they were almost invisible. "I thought I could trust your judgement. It seems I was mistaken."

"Very well," muttered Murtagh. He made the oath, feeling the binding power of the words settle over him as he completed the phrase.

"Good," said Galbatorix with a dour grin. "It is better this way, Murtagh. Think of the trouble it would cause if those men were to recognize you after you killed one of their comrades. And next month, they will know that you belong to me."

Galbatorix let that statement hang in the air, and Murtagh couldn't help but ask, "What happens then?"

"On the night of the full moon, the Empire's young nobles are to be formally presented to my court. I had hoped I would be able to introduce you to the realm on that occasion. After all, the people will want to meet their champion."

Murtagh blanched. He had always hated the court social functions. The stuffy nobles were constantly looking down their noses at him, as if he, the son of their king's greatest ally, was some filthy thing they had scraped off their expensive boots. Murtagh loathed the excessive formality, the dancing and the plastered smiles. Not to mention the waste such a grand party provided, feeding, housing and entertaining a few nobles while so much of the Empire starved.

Could Galbatorix have thought of a better way to torture him?

Though Murtagh had hated the nobles and done their best to avoid them, he had kept his ears open. He had been interested in the politics and power struggles of Galbatorix's court, and had learned a lot from the servants, messengers and slaves – those people whom greater men deemed unworthy of notice, but whom Murtagh knew paid close attention to everything they saw and heard. He learned more about the court of Uru'baen from the gossiping servants than he ever did from his teachers.

"The nobles have been arriving for weeks now," continued Galbatorix. "You must have seen them arriving when you left this evening."

Murtagh remembered the long line of carriages he had seen earlier. At first, he had been a little surprised that Galbatorix had not insisted in showing him off to as many people as he could. It seemed like something the king would do. But, he supposed that that was what this ball was for – to show him off. To parade him around like some prize donkey at a fair.

"They have been waiting for this for quite some time now, the young nobles and their families. Spring presentation days are always something of a party. There is a grand feast, and of course dancing. I quite enjoy it, actually.

"I will expect you to attend," said Galbatorix sternly, noting Murtagh's look of severe distaste, "and to present the very best possible face in front of my court. I'll not have you ruining my party."

At this point, Murtagh had decided it was wiser not to say anything. There was nothing he could do to change his circumstances, in any case.

"And now," continued Galbatorix, all traces of amusement lost from his voice. "In the matter of your punishment – don't think I forgot, Murtagh. You seem to have left me in quite the dilemma. I obviously can't kill you, as I would any other who disobeyed my orders. On the other hand, I can't just let you off, either.

"I have decided that you will spend some time with the Twins. Perhaps that will keep your temper in check.

Murtagh glared up at Galbatorix. "The Twins?" he spluttered.

"Yes, Murtagh, the Twins. I will hear no excuses; you thoroughly deserve whatever they do to you." Galbatorix smirked. "You are a murderer, after all. Now, ganga."

To his fury, but not to his surprise, Murtagh found himself walking swiftly back up the throne room, his legs moving of their own accord. He sped past the black stone benches, the torch-brackets and the high glass windows, and was almost at the door when Galbatorix called, "A warning, Murtagh: do not presume to take my orders so lightly in the future. I will not be so lenient with your freedom again."

Murtagh ignored Galbatorix's threat as the king's spell carried him further down the corridor. He had hardly had any freedom thus far; it was not as if revoking what little there was would make any difference.

Murtagh paid little attention to the stone halls around him as he let his legs carry him where they would. It was a disconcerting feeling; Galbatorix rarely forced Murtagh's body to act without his consent. Most of the time, he simply ordered Murtagh to do what he wished, sometimes through the invocation of his true name.

Murtagh was used to being in control of himself, completely independent. He had survived on his own for longer than he could remember, even before he had fled Uru'baen. As a boy he had been ignored by most, and had learned to amuse himself without the help of close friends or companions. As he grew older, Murtagh had let even fewer people get close to him. He had been quiet and withdrawn. When Murtagh finally left Galbatorix's palace, there had been no question: trust, even in someone he had previously counted among his allies, was a luxury Murtagh could not afford.

It was not long before Murtagh was jolted back to the present. He had arrived in the same antechamber in which he had been forced to swear allegiance to Galbatorix.

The Twins were waiting for him there.

They looked exactly the same as always, though this time their faces were twisted into what could only be frustrated frowns.

"We have some interesting news for you, Murtagh," they announced as he approached. The moment he stepped into the antechamber, Murtagh felt the effects of Galbatorix's spell lift, and he was free to move on his own. What good did it do him, though, when he had nowhere to go?

Murtagh had a chance to offer a smirk of his own as he replied, voice heavy with sour sarcasm. "Not another long-lost sibling, I hope?"

"Not at all." The Twins shook their heads, masking their frustration with simpering smiles that were marred with the usual dark tenor of contempt. "We meant only to inform you of a…regime change among your friends in the Varden."

Murtagh froze. The Twins' false smiles grew only wider.

"Our spies have informed us that they have elected a new leader. Nasuada is her name, the daughter of Ajihad. We must admit this surprised us, and Galbatorix as well. He expected your brother to be chosen as the Varden's leader, as did we. We all wonder what the Varden are trying to accomplish."

Murtagh wondered, too. Though he had given little thought to the matter of Ajihad's successor, he had expected the obvious choice to be Eragon. The Varden would want to rally around a Dragon Rider, the only real hope for their survival.

That Nasuada was a young woman was immaterial. Murtagh knew that she would make a fine leader. She was, after all, her father's daughter. Ajihad would have taught her everything he knew about weapons and their use. Nasuada had grown up under the heel of strife and combat. She knew the perils of war all too well, having stayed behind, against her father's wishes, during the battle under Farthen Dur when the rest of the Varden's women and children had been sent to Surda for their own safety. Nasuada was no green girl, but Murtagh knew there were some, the conservatives among the Varden, who would object to her leadership. He silently wished her luck.

The Twins dismissed the matter quickly. "Galbatorix has given us orders to punish you for your actions earlier this evening," said one of them. "Though we do not think you were mistaken in killing that man – "

"You don't?" interrupted Murtagh, stunned. The Twins were taking his side?

"No, of course not," the man continued, brushing the interruption aside. "He was a direct threat to your personal safety. Why shouldn't you protect yourself?"

The other Twin nodded as well. "We disagree with the king on this matter."

"So I am free to go?" Murtagh asked, knowing it was too good to be true.

"Hardly," the Twins scoffed. "We don't like you, Murtagh. Have you not noticed? You are an arrogant little pup, with no respect for your betters. Whether or not we believe what you did tonight was wrong, Galbatorix has given us orders to punish you. We will do as he commands."

The Twins advanced upon him, devilish grins on their identical faces.

When the Twins finally let Murtagh go several hours later, he ached so fiercely that he could barely walk. His body was rent with numerous bleeding gashes, and a spectacular purple bruise had bloomed over his right eye. His dark hair was slick with his own blood. Murtagh's injuries would have to be tended to when he returned to his rooms.

Despite the torture, Murtagh had forced himself not to cry out and give the Twins further satisfaction.

Murtagh had never understood the Twins' outright animosity towards him. Why did they hate him so, when he had had next to no contact with them? After he had refused their entry into his mind, Murtagh had not spoken to them at all until their company had been brought together for the scourge of the tunnels under the Beor Mountains. Murtagh had never done anything to harm or even annoy them during their stay with the Varden, and yet the Twins despised him with a passion akin to nothing he had ever seen.

The only explanation Murtagh could yet glean was that the Twins were angry that they had been unable to see into his thoughts. They had tried, that day when he, Eragon and Saphira had finally reached the Varden. They had tried to the fullest extent of their power. Murtagh had felt the pressure on his mental barriers, but it had caused him no pain. The only thing he could compare it to was an itch he couldn't scratch: irritating, but nothing really worth bothering with.

But no, even the Twins could never be that petty. Had they not proven that they were strong enough to break him, albeit with Galbatorix's assistance? Murtagh's mental walls had been powerful; he had spent the better part of his life perfecting them, but his protection was nothing compared to their combined force. The day he had learned Murtagh's true name, it had been practically nothing, not effort whatsoever, for Galbatorix to rip his mental barriers apart. Murtagh may once have been able to resist the Twins on his own, but now, after all that had happened, Murtagh's walls were like shattered windows, the bare, jagged edges all that were left. He wondered if he could ever rebuild them as strong as they had been.

Murtagh also wondered if it even mattered. There was no use in having exceptional mental protection if he served a master that knew his true name. Galbatorix would protect Murtagh's mind from any outside influence, but his absolute knowledge of every thought that passed through Murtagh's mind could only be to the king's advantage.

As he dragged himself back to his suite, Murtagh contemplated what the Twins had said earlier. Though they had not faulted him in his killing the man in the tavern, Murtagh was beginning to wonder if it had been rash of him. His anger had long since receded, and he was now able to think more clearly. Even if the man had succeeded in landing a blow, it was not as if the drunken swine could have done much damage. Murtagh easily could have dodged him and left the Cracked Keg without spilling a drop of blood.

He sighed. He had let his temper, and his pride, get the better of him yet again. Killing the man, Conner, had not been necessary, but Murtagh's instincts had guided him to what had seemed then to be the only solution: eliminate the problem.

That was the way it had always been, for Murtagh. It was the art of staying alive. He could hardly be expected to change his ways now, not when his safety depended more than ever on his quick reflexes and unwavering resolve in protecting himself.

Murtagh was too sore and too exhausted to put much thought in the matter. He wanted nothing more than to curl up beside Thorn in the soft, sweet-smelling hay and sleep. There were still several hours yet before dawn, when he knew Galbatorix still expected Murtagh to rise and join him for breakfast, but a few hours' sleep were exactly what he needed to replenish his strength.

Murtagh knew he should be hungry; the last food he had had been the meat pie in the market. But the Twin's torture, and the taste of his own blood in his mouth, had quelled his appetite and left him only with the desire to sleep until the sun woke him for another gruelling day.

Murtagh let himself into his suite and removed the brace of wrist-knives he still wore, placing it on the weapons-rack alongside his sword, dagger and bow. He was tempted to ignore his injuries, the pain from which was just starting to recede, but he knew he would regret it in the morning.

He didn't have time for a full bath; a quick wash was going to have to suffice. Removing his ripped and bloodstained shirt, Murtagh tossed into the fire. He knew he probably could have repaired it with magic, but found he simply couldn't be bothered at the moment.

Murtagh stepped into the privy adjacent to his bedroom, appraising his injuries in the large mirror. The cuts and bruises, though intensely painful, would heal soon enough. Mercifully, nothing was broken. He doubted he had strength left in him enough to heal such a grievous wound.

Drawing some water from the stone ewer, Murtagh set it on the rack above the fire to heat while he concentrated the very last reserves of his strength into healing his injuries. Over the last weeks of his training, Murtagh had quickly become adept at magical healing. It was something he was good at, better than scrying or the conjuring of fire. That satisfied him, in a small way. He found it so easy to kill that he was glad healing came just as quickly. It struck a balance in his life, albeit a small one.

Centring himself, Murtagh pressed his fingers to the bleeding gashes on his arms and chest. The cuts were deep but uninfected, and the skin sealed over neatly after a quiet, "Waise heill." The newly formed scars were brightly pale, and stood out against his tanned skin. Moving next to the bruises, Murtagh barely had to touch them before they faded away. The purple lump above his eye took slightly longer, but was soon replaced with a cool, relaxed feeling. A few more minutes, and Murtagh would be asleep. He couldn't wait.

Hearing the water behind him start to bubble, Murtagh removed it from the fire. Pouring some on a washcloth, he tried first to gently scrub his face, but then gave up and poured the warm, but not boiling water over himself, rinsing the congealed blood from his hair and body.

Donning a fresh shirt, Murtagh continued through the double doors to the meadow. The night was cool and exceptionally dark, the pale moon just showing from behind a thick layer of cloud. There was a hushed silence throughout the meadow, but it was a comforting quiet. Murtagh loved being awake when no one else was, as if he had the entire world to himself.

By the scant light of the moon and the stars, Murtagh made his way across the clearing to where Thorn slept. Despite the darkness, Murtagh's sharp eyes could easily pick out the dragon's distinct outline against the metal shelter.

He settled himself along Thorn's scaly flank. Though a warm, soft bed waited not a hundred paces away, Murtagh could not bring himself to leave the sleeping dragon. He preferred to sleep outside anyway.

He had found a comfortable position was almost asleep when Murtagh rolled over, jabbing himself in the back with something very sharp. Cursing, he remembered the little dragon statue he had purchased at the market, the one that looked so like Thorn.

The dragon awoke when he heard Murtagh's curses. _Hello, Murtagh,_ he said, his mental voice thick and heavy with exhaustion. Murtagh was not surprised to see that he looked more tired than usual. A fierce wind had assaulted the land for the better part of that day. This had pleased both Galbatorix and Shruikan, who had wanted Thorn to have a chance to practice flying in adverse weather conditions. Murtagh knew that Thorn's enormous wings would act like sails, pulling his body skyward whether he wanted to or not. He could tell that Thorn had had a difficult time of it.

_You've been long in coming, haven't you? _said the dragon.

"It's been a very long day, Thorn," grumbled Murtagh, "I think I'd just like to go to sleep, if you don't mind." It came out more irritably than Murtagh had intended, so he then said, "But I have something for you." Pulling the dragon statuette from his pocket, Murtagh laid it in the hay beside Thorn's head.

Thorn was enthralled with the little figure. _Would you look at that,_ he said, the corners of his mouth turning upwards. _The sculptor must have had a very handsome model._

"And a modest one," replied Murtagh, yawning hugely.

_You should sleep now, Murtagh_, said Thorn gently, nuzzling him. _You have had a trying day. But I have some good news._

"Oh?"

_Master Shruikan said to tell you that we're going to start flying tomorrow. _

* * *

A/N:Major condensing here - this used to be two full chapters, but looking back on it, I don't know why I split them up.

- Miss Maddie


	15. Chapter 15

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 15

Murtagh had had precious little reason to be excited over anything as of late. He surprised even himself as he woke early the next morning, all traces of the previous night's pain and exhaustion leaving him as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. It took him a moment to remember what Thorn had said the night before.

Today was the day. After three weeks of anticipation, months of bitter jealousy and a lifetime of wishing, Murtagh was finally going to fly.

Murtagh had often envied Eragon and Saphira, who had patrolled the skies together while he had been left on the ground to guard the packhorses. They had regarded him as little more than a horse himself, really. A beast of burden fit for nothing more than carrying the packs. How appropriate it was that he, Murtagh, would no longer be confined to the ground.

Thorn shook himself awake only moments after Murtagh. _Well?_ he asked, yawning.

_Let's go. _

They set off together, arriving quickly at the field where their usual breakfast table awaited them. Galbatorix sat in the chair opposite Murtagh's. He was fiddling with something in his hands, but stowed it beneath his robes before Murtagh could get a clear look at what it was.

"Good morning, Murtagh, Thorn," he said, looking them over. "I am glad to see that you both are well-rested. We have much to accomplish today." He frowned. "The timing is less than ideal, of course – it seems more of a reward than your actions last night merit, Murtagh. However, Shruikan has informed me that Thorn is ready, and I haven't a moment to spare." He stood, revealing a tray full of fruit and hot buttered rolls. A pitcher of milk stood beside it, and, on the ground, what looked to be an entire deer carcass. "But first, eat. I am sure you are anxious to proceed, but you both will need your strength today."

Murtagh practically inhaled his food. Within minutes he and Thorn had finished and Shruikan had joined them, appearing suddenly from behind the crest of a distant hill.

When they finished eating, Galbatorix snapped his fingers and a brawny servant appeared, carrying a wrapped, bulky package in his arms. He deposited the bundle on the ground without saying a word, retreating after a low bow.

Galbatorix unwrapped the package, and its use quickly became apparent.

With Murtagh's help, the king strapped the dragon saddle across Thorn's back, cinching the straps tight. The restraints for Murtagh's legs hung loose at Thorn's sides.

"This is only a prototype, of course," said Galbatorix. "The tanners worked through the night to finish it, but I will have to have another made, one that is better for flying over long distances." He rubbed his thumb over the smooth leather. "This will have to do, for now."

Thorn ambled over to Shruikan, and the two of them stood to one side, their heads together, talking. Galbatorix and Murtagh watched the two dragons from a few paces away.

"You should consider yourself lucky, Murtagh," the king pointed out. "I was worried, at first, that I would have to grow Thorn again before you could fly him. I am intensely pleased that my powers were not required to further accelerate Thorn's growth."

Galbatorix was right. Even after the effects of his spell had long since subsided, Thorn seemed longer and broader in the legs and shoulders. Though somewhat barrel-chested, his intense training with Shruikan had left him a heavily muscled, if stocky frame, and his fierce eyes and glittering ruby scales perfectly complimented his snow-white teeth and claws. Thorn was a handsome beast, Murtagh had to admit.

At last, Thorn left Shruikan's side and crossed over to Murtagh. He was still somewhat unsteady on his feet; Murtagh hoped he would be less precarious in the air.

_Are you ready?_ Thorn asked.

_If you are._

_Climb aboard, then, and let us be off._

Murtagh was unsure as to how to proceed. Finding a relatively stable foothold on Thorn's foreleg, he clambered awkwardly onto his back and settled into the saddle while Galbatorix helped him secure the leg restraints.

Murtagh prepared himself as he listened to Galbatorix's murmured instruction. "There are magical barriers that will keep you from going too far without an escort," he explained. "You will feel them, and Thorn will be unable to cross them."

Murtagh sighed. He had expected as much.

Despite himself, Murtagh felt a bit nervous as Galbatorix stepped back and looked up at them, shielding his eyes with a hand. His stomach felt queasy, and he suddenly wished he had not eaten quite so quickly.

_Calm down, Murtagh_, said Thorn gently, his soothing voice washing over him like a wave of cool water. _I will not let you fall. _

"Good luck, both of you," said Galbatorix. He reached forward and slapped Thorn's hindquarters. "Now fly!"

Murtagh felt Thorn's powerful muscles bulge under him for a fraction of a second, and then they were off. Thorn's talons ripped chunks of sod from the ground as he launched himself skyward so fast that Murtagh was nearly thrown off, despite being secured by the straps on the saddle. Murtagh squeezed his arms tightly around the base of Thorn's neck as he accelerated, and within seconds Shruikan and Galbatorix were far behind them.

The wind whipped Murtagh's hair back from his face, and it was only now, after the initial exhilaration of the take-off had passed, that he remembered to open his eyes. He had not even realized until that moment that they had been closed.

The countryside stretched on for countless leagues around him. Peeking over the side of Thorn's flank, Murtagh was clutched by a sudden, paralysing vertigo as ten feet of shiny red scales gave way to three hundred feet or more of open, empty air. The grass was a smooth emerald carpet far beneath them, disrupted here and there with clumps of darker green that were the trees. A patchwork quilt of farmer's crops coloured the ground to the north and east with squares of yellow, pale green and dusty brown, adding a touch of texture to the serene landscape. Shining silver streams snaked this way and that, twisting around the grand estates that surrounded the capital in every direction. In the distance, the ground turned a muddy yellow-brown as scrub brush gave way to the edges of the Hadarac Desert. The endless sky around them was a clear, cerulean blue as far as Murtagh could see.

It was rapture. Surely there could be nothing in the world as wonderful as this.

Remembering the pure ecstasy he had felt for the few moments he had been in a dragon saddle before, when Saphira had once ferried him across a river, Murtagh laughed out loud – that paled in comparison to what he was doing now.

Despite himself, Murtagh let out a whoop of joy and yelled, over the deafening rush of wind in his ears, "Can you go any faster?"

_Speed, you say?_ asked Thorn. _Brace yourself, then, my friend._

Murtagh had less then a second to react as Thorn tucked in his wings and shot forwards. The landscape raced past them, their speed exhilarating. Murtagh let out a real laugh then, for the first time in weeks.

The only damper on this perfect feeling was that Galbatorix was still in his mind. Murtagh felt a slight prod as the king said, _Well? How is it?_

_It's wonderful, _Murtagh responded, in absolute truthfulness.

_In time you will learn to fight from Thorn's back with both sword and bow,_ said Galbatorix. _For now, however, just take note of how it feels as he moves beneath you. It will take some time to get used to flying. I hope you aren't afraid of heights._

Then Shruikan chimed in. _Show him that barrel roll, hatchling. _

_Hold on, _said Thorn.

_To what?_ Wondered Murtagh wryly.

There was a moment of stillness before Thorn twisted his body sharply to the left, and Murtagh saw the world around him spin, the land and sky blurring together into one incomprehensible blue-green mass. Before another thought could even register in his mind, Thorn had righted himself and they were flying once more.

Then, Murtagh felt a tingling sensation in the back of his mind. Time seemed to slow, and he found it difficult to move, as if the air itself had thickened. He realized that they must be approaching the barrier Galbatorix had set.

Without even slowing, Thorn curved suddenly and rocketed upwards. The motion, though lightning fast, was completely smooth, and Murtagh felt nothing but a slight wrenching sensation in his gut as he pressed himself against Thorn's body. The bright morning sun glared into Murtagh's face, but the saddle secured his arms tightly, and he could not lift a hand and shield his eyes. He ducked behind Thorn's thick neck as the dragon climbed higher and higher, until the air around them grew so thin that Murtagh's already unsteady breath grew even more ragged. It froze as it came in contact with the chilly air, hanging in thin, wispy clouds.

Murtagh squeezed his eyes shut against the buffeting wind. His fingers near to froze as they were, clenched into tight fists and pressed against Thorn's neck, before the dragon's climb finally ceased. He seemed to hang motionless, supported by the air alone.

Unable to subdue his curiosity, Murtagh opened his eyes. For a moment he was confused, and realized only then that the world was upside-down.

Murtagh knew he would never be able to look directly at the ground, what would be up from his position, without losing his nerve entirely. Instead, he chanced a split-second glace to his right.

For the tiniest instant, Murtagh forgot where he was and what he was doing, conscious only of the great beauty around him. He could see _everything._ He found himself just north of the great stone prominence that provided shelter for the citadel. The black guard towers perched atop the tor looked much less forbidding when the morning sun cast its light upon them.

Even the Uru'baen itself seemed brighter. The sunlight danced and flashed as it glinted off the six spindly, fluted spires of malachite green at the heart of the city, the last remnants of the elves' glorious city of Ilirea. They looked so delicate, as if the slightest breath of wind could send them toppling to the ground, but Murtagh knew that they were much stronger than any structure that could be crafted by human means.

In that brief moment, it was a place of absolute calm.

Looking beyond the castle, on this clear day and at this staggering height, Murtagh thought he could just see the purplish tips of the highest peaks of the Beor Mountains, jutting up into the sky far to the south.

Murtagh savoured the sight for as long as he could before he Thorn furled his outstretched wings to his sides and, with dizzying speed, dropped out of the sky.

Murtagh was wrenched with the sickening sensation of leaving his stomach behind, at the top of their climb. The ground that had seemed so impossibly far away a moment ago was now hurtling towards them, coming closer and closer still, until Murtagh knew they were going to collide. He panicked, grasping frantically for reins on the saddle, as he would on a horse, but his calloused fingers felt nothing but scales.

And then, Murtagh felt Thorn's presence in his mind, for the first time since the start of their ascent. Two small words he heard, and two small words were what it took to comfort him: _trust me._

They were a mere fifty feet from impact when Thorn turned swiftly away and spiralled upwards once more. The momentum of the drop spurned Thorn's flight, and at three hundred feet he released his wings. They filled with air almost immediately, and they continued on, at a considerably slower and less nauseating pace.

_You're green, Murtagh,_ chuckled Thorn

_I'm not surprised,_ responded Murtagh with his mind, not trusting himself to open his mouth. _I feel green._ _You could have warned me._

_And_ _what would you have done if I had warned you?_

Murtagh conceded the point as curved gracefully around, so that they were heading east, away from Uru'baen. There was a still silence for a few moments; neither Murtagh nor Thorn felt the need to fill the comfortable quiet with chatter. They were both content simply to enjoy this moment of happiness together, until Thorn said, _I want to show you something._

The dragon slowed for a moment, gliding on the air currents alone, and did something Murtagh never would have expected.

Taking a deep breath, he loosed a ball of sparkling red-orange fire into the sky.

It hung in the air for a few seconds, a great glittering mass, before dissipating. Thorn glanced back at Murtagh with what could only be described as a smug expression.

Murtagh was completely dumbfounded. _How did you do that?_

_I did it the first time yesterday, but I wanted it to be a surprise_. Thorn's voice swelled with pride. _This is the first time I've done it while flying._

Murtagh knew he should be happy for Thorn, but he couldn't shake the apprehensive feeling inside him. _This is wrong_, he said slowly.

Thorn's spirits fell. _What is?_

_All of this, _replied Murtagh.

_I don't understand. _

_You're three weeks__old, Thorn, of course you don't understand! _Murtagh's mental voice rose, nearly to a shout._ You shouldn't be this size yet. You shouldn't be able to carry me, or breathe fire or any of this. It's just wrong. Your life is progressing too quickly. You never even got a chance to be young!_

It was almost a relief for Murtagh to bring to voice everything that had so troubled him since Galbatorix and Shruikan had grown Thorn to his immense and unnatural size. Though he was intensely relieved that Thorn had managed to recover from the initial physical incapacitation, Murtagh now felt a slightly different tenor in the dragon's mind his than before magical growth. He could not place what it was, or if it would even prove to be harmful, but it was different, and it worried him.

_Are you not proud of me? _asked Thorn. His voice was low, and he sounded hurt. _Of what I have accomplished?_

_But that's the problem_, Murtagh said. _They aren't your accomplishments at all! You're just a baby, Thorn. Your advanced skill is only the result of whatever dark magic Galbatorix used on you. _

Thorn snorted and, in a short, sudden motion, reversed his direction and sped back to the castle. The sharp turn jerked Murtagh roughly, and he and the leather saddle slid forward a few terrifying inches.

_I think that is enough for one day_, Thorn said coldly.

Neither Thorn nor Murtagh said another word during the flight back to the castle. The journey was short, but for the first time, the stony silence between them was awkward.

Galbatorix and Shruikan were waiting for them. Mercifully, the king said nothing, though Murtagh was sure he had heard every word of their tense exchange.

When Thorn banked on the grass, Murtagh unbuckled the straps on his saddle and slid smoothly down his flank. The moment Murtagh's feet touched the ground, Thorn took off without so much as a backward glance. The gust of wind he created knocked Murtagh off-balance, and he let himself fall to his knees as he watched Thorn's hulking form glide off to the northeast.

Murtagh stood, brushing the dirt from his clothes. Galbatorix approached him, and said, his voice cool and distant, "Your lessons are cancelled for the remainder of the day. Go now, and pass the time in whatever way you see fit."

Murtagh was grateful for that. He doubted he could concentrate in his current state.

This had been he and Thorn's first real disagreement. In retrospect, Murtagh supposed it was mostly his fault. He had forgotten how proud dragons could be.

_I should have just kept my mouth shut_, he thought ruefully, watching as Thorn disappeared.

_Do not mind him_, a voice said suddenly. To Murtagh's surprise, it was Shruikan, and not Galbatorix, who spoke. His head pounded with the sheer force of the immense dragon's voice. _Thorn is extremely stubborn, even for a dragon. You must move first if you wish to apologize. _

Murtagh nodded. Shruikan's counsel made sense, though he hated to admit it. _Advice from a dragon, _he grumbled to himself._ What next?_

_I heard that, little human,_ snorted Shruikan. _Now shoo, before I burn you to cinders._

Murtagh didn't need to telling twice. He shooed, making for the door back into the castle. Shruikan leaped into the air, his enormous wings creating billowing clouds of dust, and followed Thorn.

As he wandered down the halls, Murtagh realized that he was faced with an entire afternoon in which to whatever he wanted. Having been stuck to such a tight schedule for so long, the prospect was daunting.

Remembering that he had finally finished reading the books Galbatorix had chosen for him, Murtagh decided he would go to library and return them.

Each night before he went to sleep, Murtagh spent at least an hour, if not more, poring over the thick tomes and scrolls. Most of them were about the history of the Riders and the Empire, though there were several places that Murtagh knew the authors had embellished in Galbatorix's favour, brushing over the more gruesome parts of his rise to power. The only truly complete account of Alagaesia's history was _Domia abr Wyrda_, or _The Dominance of Fate,_ which was kept in its glass case in the library.

Many of the books, particularly the ones that pertained to the magical arts, were written in the ancient language. Murtagh was becoming steadily more proficient at speaking and reading the elven tongue. Though he still had to think about each phrase before he said it, it was getting to the point that Galbatorix had only to correct his grammar or give him the translation of a difficult word.

Murtagh was even starting to pick up some of the Urgal language from the tedious war reports Galbatorix had him read, though he hated the ugly, guttural language. It was discouraging, reading about the Empire's war efforts, but Murtagh knew he had no choice. Galbatorix often tested him on the contents of the reports so as to ensure that he had actually read them.

Hurrying to his rooms, Murtagh gathered up the towering stack of books, keeping only Galbatorix's prized Compendium of Language. He glanced outside the glassed double doors to Thorn's meadow, and was not surprised to see that the dragon had not yet returned. He would speak to him later.

Murtagh retraced his path of two weeks before, passing through numerous halls and grand chambers as well as two flights of stairs, until he arrived at the great double doors that led to the library.

Sebastian sat at his desk, as usual. Galbatorix's intensely irritating head librarian did nothing to conceal his grimace of distaste as Murtagh approached. Sebastian and Murtagh's mutual dislike was no secret.

"Oh, good, you brought my books back," said Sebastian before Murtagh could even open him mouth. His high, nasal whine grated like sandpaper over Murtagh's ears. "I sincerely hope, for your sake, that you have not defiled them in any way."

Murtagh set the books down on the scroll of parchment on which Sebastian had been writing, smudging the wet ink. "Rest assured, they are as un-defiled as ever, O master of all librarians," replied Murtagh with a sarcastic smirk. "I came back to choose some more, but seeing your face is an added bonus, so thank you."

Sebastian scowled and pushed his spectacles up a little higher on his nose. "Despite my advice to the contrary, King Galbatorix has instructed me to let you choose any books you want. Apparently I'm to 'extend my every hospitality.'"

Resisting the urge to knock the pompous expression from Sebastian's face, Murtagh gave the librarian a mocking salute with one hand before setting off down the long rows of shelves. Galbatorix had not specifically said which books to read, so Murtagh idly perused the titles, taking a few here and there, in various languages and mostly from the history section.

When he had accumulated a sizeable stack, Murtagh headed back to the main doors. As he did, he passed the glass case that held _Domia abr Wyrda, _The Dominance of Fate. Eyeing it curiously, he began to wonder. Galbatorix had said he could take any book…

Suddenly, Sebastian appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, at his side. "Except that one," he said, almost reading Murtagh's mind. "No one touches it."

"Not even you," Murtagh pointed out, and Sebastian scowled yet again in response.

"Get out," he said shortly, his severe tone somewhat marred by the sound of his nasal voice. "And if there is so much as a single fingerprint on that case, I'll have your head."

Murtagh grinned and stepped easily around Sebastian. He waited until he was nearly back at the oak doors before he turned back to librarian who was still carefully inspecting _Domia abr Wyrda_'s glass case.

"Good luck with that!" Murtagh called loudly, his voice echoing around the cavernous library.

Sebastian jumped, his long nose bumping the surface of the case. He glared up at Murtagh, his thin face bright red and livid.

With a smile and a wave, Murtagh ducked out of the double doors. Whatever else he was, Sebastian was always good for a laugh.

Murtagh was still sniggering to himself when he got back to his rooms. Depositing the books on his bedside table, he stepped outside and let the cool early evening air envelop him. The meadow was quiet, its many day-going inhabitants just starting to bed down for the night, while the nocturnal creatures prepared themselves for a night of activity. Bats fluttered about here and there, feeding on moths and flies. Mice scurried around in the tall grass, avoiding the watchful eyes of the owls overhead. A wolf howled in the distance, but his mournful call went unheeded.

Thorn was already in his metal shelter, stretched out on the hay. It must have been replaced earlier in the day; Murtagh had noted that morning that it was beginning to smell rather rank. This was clean and fresh and smelled of sunshine.

Murtagh approached the dragon cautiously. His eyes were half-closed, gazing idly at the mice he knew he could kill instantly, were he in the mood. Thorn's great wings were furled at his sides, creating a tent of warmth around him. He looked at ease, but Murtagh was still careful.

_Are you still angry with me? _He asked as he drew near_._

Thorn sat in silence for a moment, considering Murtagh's question._ No, _he said finally._ I'm not angry. I never really was, I suppose. _

Murtagh sat in the hay beside Thorn's head._ I'm sorry, _he said._ I know you've been working hard. Harder than me, probably. You deserve credit for what you've accomplished. _

_It's all right, Murtagh, _replied Thorn gently_. You worry about me. I can understand that._

_You're sure you're all right? _Murtagh asked earnestly, looking Thorn in the eye_. You seem…different than before._

_I've never felt better, _he answered._ And as for never being young, bah! This body can be cumbersome, on the ground at least, but that is far outweighed by the benefits. It is too much more powerful than my last body for me to miss it so terribly. I can fly, I can fight, and I can breathe fire – what more could a dragon want?_

_What indeed?_ wondered Murtagh. Leaning against Thorn's flank, he said. _Shruikan seems pleased with your progress, at least. How is he – I mean, as a teacher? Do you like him? _Having had so little direct contact with the old dragon, Murtagh was curious about Thorn's impression of him.

Thorn paused, and then said, _There is a great sadness in him, and much anger. He never wanted to serve Galbatorix – you know that he was stolen from his real Rider, a long time ago. But he has learned to accept his lot in life, just as we must do. If one cannot change his situation, then he must do the best he can with his limited options. _

Thorn gazed up at the sky, the twinkling ghosts of stars reflected in his ruby eyes. It's a glorious feeling, isn't it? Being up there.

Murtagh nodded_. Like being free. _


	16. Chapter 16

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 16

Days passed, and as April slid into May, the weather became steadily warmer. The many animals in Murtagh and Thorn's meadow were giddy with springtime fever, the first fawns of the season having appeared at the beginning of the week. They crept out of the trees, blinking in the bright sunlight, their spindly legs awkward and unsure.

The end of Murtagh's first month in Uru'baen came and went, though he paid little heed to the passage of time. A sense of time when he lived the way he did, his every waking minute controlled by Galbatorix, was little more than wishful thinking.

Murtagh thoroughly enjoyed his time spent away from the king. The solitary moments were few and far between, but when they came, he relished them. During the rare times that Murtagh and Thorn were not training with Galbatorix and Shruikan, they took to flying alone around the vast, lonely countryside surrounding Uru'baen. They were grateful to be rid of their hostile instructors, both of whom favoured mental lashings to kind words of encouragement. They could not go as far as they wished, being unable to extend past the barriers Galbatorix had set for them, but still the pair flew for hours, speaking little, enjoying one another's company.

It was on one of these forays that they saw a girl sitting solitary on a grassy knoll, surrounded by hundreds of horses that were grazing in the wide pasture. Several small spruce trees around her provided shade from the heat of the mid-afternoon sun. Thorn swooped silently down, landing a hundred yards behind her.

_Stay here_, Murtagh told Thorn_, I think your presence may frighten her._

Thorn snorted indignantly but agreed.

Murtagh walked the rest of the distance to the girl. It was not until he was quite close to her that he realized how young she was. She was small and very thin; Murtagh guessed that she could not have been more than ten or eleven years old. Remembering how much he disliked children, Murtagh turned to leave, but in his haste, trod on a fallen branch. The girl jumped at the noise, stumbling as she rose to curtsy. Her patched dress was smeared with grime, her long, dark hair pulled into a messy knot at the nape of her neck. A few strands had escaped their leather ties, the inky tresses partially concealing her blue-grey eyes.

"Good afternoon, sir. How may I assist you?" She spoke not in a commoner's rough speech, but in a smooth, polished tone that was ill suited to her youth.

"I sought only to greet you." Murtagh replied, though inwardly cursing his clumsiness. Motioning to her charges, Murtagh asked, "Are you an ostler?"

"I am in training," replied the girl. "My name is Clare, if it please you, sir."

It seemed that was to be the end of their short-lived conversation, until a lean, lanky youth in mud-stained trousers and little else came sprinting across the pasture, dodging between the horses' bites and kicks with practiced ease.

"Hey, you! What're you doing talking to my sister? What's your business here?" The youth panted heavily as he approached Murtagh and Clare. Though he too had coal-black hair and blue eyes, his countenance was somewhat less distinguished than Clare's. He appeared to be several years older than she, though still a few years younger than Murtagh.

"I wished to speak with her," said Murtagh, affronted by the boy's rudeness.

"Well you have, so be on your way."

Clare stepped in, a blush staining her fair cheeks. "I am ashamed for my brother, my lord."

"What is your name?" asked Murtagh, addressing the boy.

"Corrin Tornacsson, not that it's any of your business."

Murtagh stared. "Tornac…not – not the Tornac who instructed me in swordplay all those years ago?"

Corrin's cold eyes widened. "_You_ are Murtagh?"

"Yes. I was not aware that Tornac had any children."

Corrin's gaze fell, and he spoke so quietly that Murtagh could barely distinguish his next words. "Nor was he."

"Excuse me?"

The boy's tone changed, becoming accusatory. "He was so busy training _you_, he neglected his own family. Then he ran off with you that night, and got himself stabbed."

Murtagh felt his gut twist in some inexplicable feeling. "I am truly sorry to have been that cause of your father's death, but I hold no quarrel with you. May we at least be civil to each other?" he extended a hand, inadvertently exposing the gedwey ignasia. Clare caught a glimpse of the silvery mark, and her eyes widened.  
"You're a Dragon Rider!" she exclaimed, for a moment forgetting her manners.

Corrin withdrew his hand sharply, as though afraid of being burned. He eyed Murtagh warily and ducked his head in a strange motion that was halfway between a nod and a bow. " I might've known," he said, his voice riddled with sarcasm. Mimicking a noble's formal speech, he drawled, "I heard that our glorious ruler had acquired a new lapdog."

Murtagh glared at Corrin, his voice deadly calm. "You should not speak so ill of your king," he said quietly. "He can hear you right now, you know." Murtagh wasn't actually sure if Galbatorix was listening to their conversation, but he still smirked at Corrin's involuntary twitch as he looked over his shoulder, as if expecting Galbatorix to jump out from behind one of the scraggly trees.

Corrin flushed scarlet with fury and, beneath it, fear. "He's in your head, isn't he?" he demanded suddenly.

Clare stepped forward and laid a hand on her brother's shoulder. "Corrin, hush!" she pleaded fervently. "You should not show disrespect – "

But Corrin cut her off. "My mother knows about magic," He said loudly, recklessly. "She's told me some of the things he can do - to his _slaves_." He spat, drawing the word out horribly.

Clare gripped Corrin's arm tightly. "Corrin, please!" she begged, but Corrin did not even acknowledge her. He shoved her aside and she too flushed bright red, not with anger, but with fear and embarrassment at her brother's foolishness.

"I may be a commoner," said Corrin, his voice now rising to a shout, and stepped forward so that he was face to face with Murtagh. Murtagh was surprised to see that they were within an inch of the same height. "But at least I'm free!"

Corrin had now exceeded the limits of Murtagh's patience. He rounded on the boy, temper blazing. "You dare speak to me like that? Thrysta vindr!" Compressing a ball of air as he had been taught to do, Murtagh hurled it into Corrin's stomach. The youth was thrown onto his back, all the wind knocked out of him. He rolled awkwardly to his hands and knees, winded.

Clare gasped and knelt at her brother's side, staring in horror at Murtagh.

Murtagh opened his mind to Thorn, who was still sitting a hundred yards away, observing the verbal sparring with interest.

_Thorn!_ called Murtagh.

_Yes?_

_Let's show these commoners why the Riders are still to be feared!_

_With pleasure!_

Thorn leaped into the air, his enormous scarlet body blotting out the sun for a moment. He shot towards them, loosing a jet of flame that scorched the countryside and sent the horses into a panicked frenzy. Thorn banked on the hillside, and Murtagh hopped nimbly from his foreleg to the leather saddle on his scaly back.

Murtagh looked back to where Clare and Corrin were still standing, their mouths hanging open in astonishment. "Be on your guard, boy!" he called, as Thorn launched himself into the sky, roaring thunderously and blasting another ball of fire that hung motionless in the air before fading out of existence.

As Murtagh and Thorn winged their way back to Uru'baen, Murtagh felt the heat of his anger start to recede.

_We overreacted, I think,_ chided Thorn lightly.

_Ah, well. The boy angered me._

Even so, we would do well not to engage in showy antics like that in the future. It is not becoming to a dragon, or a Dragon Rider.

_Perhaps you're right,_ admitted Murtagh, _but you can't tell me you didn't enjoy that, even just a little._

_Maybe just a little,_ replied Thorn with a dragon's deep, throaty chuckle. The pair of them sped back to Uru'baen, a hazy black spot on the distant horizon.


	17. Chapter 17

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 17

One morning, not long after his encounter with Clare and Corrin, Murtagh stepped out of his suite to join Galbatorix at breakfast and nearly trod on the platter of eggs, cheese and sausage that steamed just outside his door. A folded note written in precise script on heavy, official-looking parchment sat atop the pitcher of milk, which he picked up and read:

_To Rider Murtagh – _

_His Majesty King Galbatorix has some pressing matters of state to attend to today, and bids you to spend the day at the south gate training yards. Supper will be served in the dining hall at the usual hour. _

Murtagh grinned. It had been ages since he had really practiced physical combat, focused as he was on perfecting his magical powers. A day at the training yards was exactly what he needed.

Murtagh brought the tray of breakfast into his rooms, setting in down on the table in his sitting room. Since no one was waiting for him today, he ate his food at a leisurely pace, taking the time to actually enjoy the meal rather than scarfing it down as usual. As he ate, he glanced out the window at Thorn's empty shelter. It seemed the dragon was afforded no such luxury as a day to himself. Shruikan was stricter a master even than Galbatorix, and worked Thorn at a gruelling pace.

When he had downed a last gulp of milk, Murtagh set the tray and pitcher outside his door and took up his weapons. He slid his sword into its scabbard and clipped it to his belt, then slung his unstrung bow and quiver over his shoulder. Argedauth, his dagger, was already in its usual place in its boot-sheath.

His task complete, Murtagh stepped out of his suite. Proceeding down the corridor opposite the way he usually took to go to Galbatorix's throne room and the dining chamber, Murtagh followed the hallways and looped around until he walked along the main southern corridor. This was the largest and busiest of the ground floor halls, and Murtagh passed many people on his way to the training yards. They gave him a wide berth, some greeting him with nods or small bows, which he did not return. Most of them just stepped out of his way and sped past him with no further acknowledgement.

When Murtagh finally arrived at the training yards, he was pleased to see that the place had not changed a bit since he had last been there. Aside from the library, this was where he had spent the bulk of his time. The main yard was a wide field, shaded by the huge stony hill, but still outdoors. The grass grew in sparse patches here and there. Most of the field was worn down to bare dirt from decades of foot traffic. All around, Murtagh could see soldiers in mock battle, duelling each other with swords and battleaxes.

Other men practiced unarmed combat. In a far corner of the yard, two shirtless, sweaty youths wrestled on the ground while their companions jeered and hollered catcalls. A few men jogged around the perimeter of the yard, panting heavily.

At the far end of the field, Murtagh could see – and smell – the stables, where the bulk of the army's horses were housed. He had once known the chief ostler, Randan, and hoped the old man was still caring for the horses. He had always treated them exceptionally well, and had bred some of the Empire's finest mounts.

The archery yards lay to the right of the stables. Unlike the indoor court where Murtagh had demonstrated his marksmanship to Galbatorix, these were open to the general public. Most of the lanes were occupied by men either shooting or throwing daggers. A few had crossbows, and stood further back from the others as they took aim and fired bolt after bolt into the cork targets set seventy paces away.

There were even a few tilting lanes. Though Murtagh himself had never been interested participating in the joust, he had liked to watch the dangerous sport and had attended a few tournaments in his youth.

For a moment, he watched as two men in full plate armour lead their large, fierce-looking mounts to opposite ends of the lane. As magnificent as the horses were, Murtagh had trouble admiring them next to the splendour of a dragon.

An umpire, standing alone at the middle of the beaten dirt track, raised a red flag overhead and then lowered it, stepping quickly back out of the way.

The riders kicked their warhorses into a gallop and the animals charged. Digging spurs into the horses' sweat-streaked flanks, the men rose in their saddles as thy thundered down the lane. Aiming for the palm-sized target circles on each other's shields, the men lowered their lances into position and collided with a resounding crash. One man's lance hit the other's shield at an angle and skidded past it, nearly goring his opponent. Narrowly dodging a lance to the gut, the other rider surged forward and slammed his lance into the shield of his attacker.

Murtagh knew even before the lance hit that the man was going to fall. The tip of the lance struck just under the centre of the shield and shattered with the force of the impact. The soldier popped from his saddle. He flew in a wide arc through the air, shedding his lance and shield as he went. Landing with a heavy thump in the dirt on his armour-clad rear, the jouster did not rise until his opponent walked over to him and pulled him to his feet. Dusting himself while attempting to maintain what little dignity he had left, the fallen soldier went to retrieve his lance and his horse.

As the jousters cleared the lane, Murtagh realized he had been staring at them for a full minute. Shaking his head, he hefted his weapons and trudged across the yard to one of the many practice dummies along the walled side of the field. The dummies, grain sacks stuffed with straw and fashioned into relatively human shape, had round wooden shields fixed to their 'arms.' They were for use by single warriors when no partner was available.

Depositing his bow and quiver, Murtagh drew his sword and charged, giving his body over to years of practice. His movements were fast and graceful, his brain barely registering the motion. Swiftly he lunged and jabbed, and then dodged or blocked imaginary return strikes. He was careful not to actually hit the dummy if he could avoid it, or it would come apart in an instant. They were not meant to last.

Murtagh would have preferred to have a real sparring partner, but he knew he could not approach any of the men here. From their hushed whispers and pointed stares, Murtagh knew that most of them recognized him, and their friends quickly informed those that did not. He was an outsider here, closer to the king than any of them were comfortable with. He forced himself to ignore them, and resigned himself to solitary practice.

Still, Murtagh was glad for the physical work. He relished each swing at the practice dummy because it was something with which he was familiar. He knew how to complete the tasks, and he knew what was expected of him. He had been trained in the use of various weapons since his childhood, but he had only just begun the study of magic. Though he enjoyed it the vast majority of the time, magic was arcane, complicated art that, more often than not, required him to learn again what he thought he had already known. Galbatorix insisted on tutoring Murtagh to the minutest detail, and was not satisfied until he could perform whatever spell or chant he was attempting with absolute perfection.

Murtagh often grew impatient with Galbatorix's strict tutelage, but had learned early on to keep his tongue in check. Though the king seemed not to care what thoughts passed through Murtagh's mind – all the better, since he could hardly stop himself from thinking them - Murtagh was rewarded with slaps or blows, both magical and physical, if he voiced his complaints.

As Murtagh's mind jolted back to his battle with the practice dummy, he saw that the straw figure was covered in rips from Murtagh's sword. Despite his best efforts, Murtagh had sometimes been unable to help himself landing the odd touch. Bits of straw were poking out through numerous holes and tears, and the wooden shield was starting to droop in a rather pathetic way.

Deciding to put the dummy out of its misery, Murtagh drew back his sword, and, with a final swing, decapitated it.

As he slid his sword back into its sheath and swept the sweat from his eyes, Murtagh felt a familiar prickle on the back of his neck. Whirling around, he saw that he was being watched.

Corrin, the boy he had met in the field some days previously, stepped forward out of the shadows. He glared at Murtagh, his blue eyes cold and contemptuous. The fact that he had a well-made and obviously well-used sword strapped to his hip was not lost on Murtagh. The boy was here for a fight.

Murtagh's suspicions were confirmed within moments. "You're not that good, you know," Corrin said. He was looking not at Murtagh's face, but at his sword. "I've been watching you. I could do better." He scuffed the toe of his worn leather boot in the dirt, still not meeting Murtagh's eyes. His voice was low and fast, and it sounded as if he had practiced what he was going to say beforehand. "My father trained me same as you, for a while," Corrin continued. "Then I got other teachers – better ones. I know the sword better than most of the men here."

Murtagh was in no mood to deal with Corrin and his bitterness. "Are you done?" he asked. "I have things I want to do today."

At last Corrin looked at him. "Don't you want to fight me?" he demanded, surprised. He had obviously assumed that Murtagh would fight at the least provocation.

"Not really, no," Murtagh said. "As I said, I have better things to do. Excuse me."

Pushing his way past Corrin, Murtagh was halted by an enraged cry of, "Fight me like a man, why don't you? You're not so brave when you don't have your dragon to hide behind!"

Murtagh sighed. It was the second time in as many weeks that his manhood had been questioned.

Again he whirled around. "_Fine_," he said, exasperated. If this idiot boy wanted a fight, then that was exactly what he would get. Drawing his sword, Murtagh advanced on Corrin, who pulled his weapon free in kind. "First blood wins," he said. As the challenged, he could state the terms.

"Fine with me," sneered the younger boy. "I'll have yours soon enough,"

Without another word, Corrin lunged at Murtagh, yelling wildly. Their swords came together in a furious crash of steel. Murtagh parried his blow and took a strike of his own. He slammed his hand-and-a-half sword against Corrin's slightly lighter blade, and their weapons caught at their hilts. Using his superior weight to his advantage, Murtagh leaned into his sword until they were locked body-to-body, a bad position for the smaller duellist. Murtagh threw his full weight behind the thrust, attempting to force Corrin to his knees, and was shocked when Corrin disengaged by dropping to the ground, and then rolling and landing with cat-like grace back on his feet. Murtagh over-balanced and very nearly fell, only to save himself with a swiftly planted foot. Corrin took advantage of Murtagh's momentary lapse of concentration and drove his sword towards Murtagh's unprotected left shoulder. Murtagh brought his sword up and blocked Corrin just in time, and their battle resumed.

After a few minutes had passed, Murtagh noticed that they had gathered an audience. A silent crowd watched intently as the pair continued to spar.

Though they were reasonably well-matched in terms of raw skill, Corrin seemed to favour unnecessary flourishes and spins in his movements. Murtagh preferred to keep his movements short and swift, moving as efficiently as possible in order to conserve energy. He knew that if they continued at this pace, Corrin would tire. He could use that.

Corrin was fast, but his blows lacked the driving power of Galbatorix's. Murtagh wondered if, after duelling with the king, he would compare all his future opponents to Galbatorix.

As the minutes wore on, Murtagh saw that he had been right – Corrin's endurance was starting to wane, doubtless due to his needless flourishes. He was trying too hard to be fancy, attempting to one-up Murtagh with show rather than skill. Sweat dripped from his black bangs into his eyes, but Corrin didn't dare lift a hand to wipe it away. His breathing was growing heavier. Murtagh had him outmatched with the relentless swings of his sword.

When Corrin attempted to slip his blade past Murtagh's arm, Murtagh saw a hole in his defence. He lunged forward and passed his sword to his left hand. This surprised Corrin, who had not expected him to be able to fight with both hands. Murtagh used his now free right hand to clamp onto Corrin's upper arm in a vicelike grip and pull their bodies close together, where he knew he had the advantage. Murtagh slammed the hilt of his sword onto Corrin's wrist, not hard enough to break it, but hard enough to make him drop his weapon. With a pained cry, Corrin was forced to let his blade fall into the dirt.

Grey eyes shining in triumph, Murtagh spun his sword around, not releasing his hold on Corrin's arm, and lightly nicked the younger man's chest through his undyed cotton shirt. He knew he could have cut deeper, but saw no point to it. His battle was won.

As the small patch of crimson bloomed at the point where Murtagh's sword point had hit, Corrin knew he had lost. He pulled free of Murtagh's now slack grip and collected his sword, not taking his eyes off Murtagh.

"This doesn't mean anything," he said furiously.

"Of course it doesn't," Murtagh replied.

Corrin glared at him, his whole body shaking with fury. "You –you - " he sputtered, unable to speak coherently. With a dejected cry, he shoved his way past their circle on onlookers and disappeared.

Murtagh slid his sword back into its sheath and picked up his weapons with grim satisfaction. He had suddenly lost interest in practicing.

A gap in the crowd opened for him, and Murtagh strode silently back to his rooms.


	18. Chapter 18

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 18

When Murtagh arrived back at his suite, he discarded his weapons and stepped into the meadow. He wandered aimlessly through the tall grass, deviating from the tramped-down footpath that led from the double doors of his bedchamber to Thorn's shelter. When he came to the tree border, thick enough to be considered a wood, Murtagh leaned against the trunk of one of the tall spruces and let his tired body slide to the grassy carpet.

The meadow was peaceful. The bright sun, almost directly overhead, threw light into even the deepest recesses of the trees. Closing his eyes, Murtagh let the warmth wash pleasantly over him. The tips of his long hair tickled his face in the light breeze, but Murtagh didn't feel like brushing the dark strands away. He relaxed into the soft cushion of grass, and tried to forget the events of earlier that morning. Despite his best efforts, Murtagh found his thoughts wandering back to his duel with Corrin.

He wished the boy hadn't challenged him. Murtagh had tried his best to dissuade him, but Corrin had been too persistent for his own good. Of course Murtagh had accepted in the end.

Murtagh regretted wounding Corrin's pride, but he wasn't about to let him win just to make him feel better. Murtagh had his own pride to consider.

He had to admit, though, Corrin was an adept swordsman. He supposed that he would have to be, if Tornac had trained him. The man was one of the best fighters Murtagh had ever known, except perhaps Galbatorix. He wondered idly where Corrin had learnt the flourished, fancy movements that had eventually led to his defeat – certainly not from his father. One of the first lessons Murtagh had learned from Tornac as boy had been to strike as efficiently as possible.

Murtagh still wondered at the fact that Tornac had children he had never known about. Tornac, his closest friend and teacher, had never even mentioned the fact that he had a son and daughter. Murtagh had met Tornac's wife a few times, a sweet, simple woman by the name of Nora, but he had never imagined that there had been two more members of their family – neither had Murtagh known that Nora, as Corrin had said, knew about magic.

But Murtagh didn't want to think about Corrin or his sister. He would simply do his best to avoid them in the future.

Allowing himself to laze for the first time in weeks, Murtagh drifted into content sleep to the sound of the gentle breeze across the grass.

When Murtagh awoke, the first thing he saw was that he had a visitor. A tiny fawn was curled up beside him, its wide brown eyes staring innocently at him. Its light brown coat was dotted with newborn white speckles, the better to conceal it in the dappled forest light.

Murtagh rubbed the sleep from his eyes and stretched himself awake as he rose to a seated position. During his nap, he had subconsciously stretched himself out on the grass.

"Hello there," he said to the fawn, who continued to stare at him. "You must think I'm a great lazy human, don't you? How long have I been out?"

The fawn simply blinked at him.

Murtagh shielded his eyes with a hand as he looked skyward to check the position of the sun. It was low in the west, partially concealed by a pearly grey layer of cloud. He had been asleep nearly six hours.

Murtagh sighed, concealing a yawn with his hand. He got clumsily to his feet, stretching his stiff arms overhead. The fawn followed his lead. It's thin, spindly legs nearly collapsed under the sudden weight.

Murtagh didn't regret his nap. He knew Galbatorix would be cross that he hadn't practiced the entire day as ordered, but Murtagh didn't care. It felt wonderful to have caught up on the sleep he had steadily lacked over the last few weeks, and to rise when he felt like it.

"I should go," Murtagh said to the fawn. "It's time for supper." He idly scratched the top of its head, and the fawn let its eyes drift contentedly closed. Murtagh gently shooed the fawn off in the direction of the trees. The baby deer scampered happily away.

It was only then that Murtagh noticed the doe gazing serenely at him from between the spruce trunks. The fawn nuzzled her flank when it reached her. The two of them turned into the trees, and, with a flick of their white tails, were gone.

When he arrived at the dining hall, Murtagh saw that a set of double doors had been thrown open so that the majority of Thorn's body could fit into the room. Thick mats had been placed under his feet so that his claws didn't scratch the polished wooden floor.

Both Thorn and Galbatorix were waiting for him.

"You're late, Murtagh," said Galbatorix as Murtagh approached the head table. He smirked. "Did you enjoy your nap?"

"Very much," answered Murtagh, unabashed.

"Come and eat."

Murtagh sat down beside Galbatorix and helped himself to a juicy steak. As they ate, Galbatorix said, "I want to know what happened this morning."

Reluctantly, Murtagh told both Galbatorix and Thorn of his duel with Corrin.

_Well, think of it this way,_ Thorn pointed out when he finished. _At least you didn't kill him._

"Oh, lovely," growled Murtagh. "So glad to see that my self-control has improved."

Just then, two servants entered the dining hall, carrying a platter of fish about three feet high. Glancing warily at Thorn's sharp teeth, they set the meal down in front of him.

Thorn sniffed at the food, and his snout wrinkled in disgust. _I hate fish, _he said_._ _I hate the taste, I hate the smell and I hate all the little bones. They will get stuck in my teeth._

Galbatorix glared at the servants, as if it was their fault that the cooks had prepared unsatisfactory food. "I will have the servants bring something else immediately."

_No need. I hunted this morning. I am not hungry._ Besides, he said, gingerly pushing the platter away from him with a forefoot, _the smell has ruined my appetite._

Murtagh and Galbatorix ate in near silence until the dessert course, a wide array of brightly coloured fruit, was served. Murtagh had never seen such variety. He didn't even recognize most it.

Galbatorix selected a round, pale orange fruit and cut into sections with his knife, handing half to Murtagh. "It's a peach," he said. "Try it."

Murtagh bit into the peach's tender flesh. Soft, creamy sweetness enveloped his mouth. He took another bite. "It's good!" he exclaimed.

"The finest selection of fruit from the orchards of Surda. Their soil is rich and their climate is warm. They can grow food that out northern soil cannot sustain."

This brought to mind a question that had been nagging Murtagh of the better part of his life. "If they can grow such food, then why did you ever let Surda secede in the first place?"

Galbatorix frowned, pondering Murtagh's question. "I was busy building my empire when Lady Marelda betrayed me and Surda became independent," he said finally. "I had much bigger things to worry about than one spit of land, no matter how fertile the soil. I entertain the Surdans' idea of freedom because I need the trade – as you know, the elves and the dwarves will not deal with us. There are plenty of independent organizations within Surda that can obtain invaluable products from the dwarves and are willing to sell them to us."

Murtagh nodded. "But that doesn't explain why you still let them trade with the Varden."

"I know that King Orrin supports the Varden, but I plan to let him continue to do so for the time being. Surda doesn't have the resources to provide for both itself and the Varden for much longer - not if Orrin wants to continue to trade with my empire, which he knows he must. They don't dare openly oppose me because they know that I can crush them whenever the time suits me, and they don't want to beget my wrath by refusing to do commerce.

"Orrin's misguided notion of resistance will beggar his country before long. When that happens, they will have no choice but to submit to my rule. Surda will be back under my control soon enough."

Murtagh saw Galbatorix's point, but it still seemed odd that the ruler of a newly formed empire would have allowed such a sizeable secession.

Galbatorix shrugged. "I admit I should have exercised more control, but it hardly matters now. I have nothing to fear from the Varden, nor from King Orrin of Surda."

Pleased to have his question answered at last, Murtagh continued eating his desert, sampling yet more of the delectable fruit. He tried cherries, dates and figs, and then helped himself to another peach.

When they finished eating, Murtagh walked back to his meadow with Thorn instead of taking the indoor route. The sun was almost behind the western horizon, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink and turning the few clouds a brilliant shade of violet. The air was beginning to cool, and by the time they reached the meadow, it was dark.

Murtagh sat with Thorn as the dragon readied himself for sleep. "What did you do today?" he asked. It had become a habit of theirs for one to tell the other what he learned during the day.

_Master Shruikan is teaching me how to sustain a flame for long periods of time, breathing so that backlash of fire doesn't scorch my throat. _Thorn answered. _It is very difficult. _Thorn settled himself on the pile of hay and gazed sleepily at Murtagh. _That little boy should not have challenged you,_ he said suddenly. _He had to have known what would happen. _

Surprised at the abrupt change of subject, Murtagh said, "I don't think he did. He was very good."

Not as good as you, though.

"No, not as good as me."

Murtagh leaned back against Thorn's flank and sighed, resolving to put both of Tornac's children out of his mind.


	19. Chapter 19

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 19

Galbatorix and Murtagh rested as they sipped at their flasks of faelnirv. The king had been drilling him in the ancient language for hours, and Murtagh was exhausted. He had been forced to chant long and complicated phrases, and Galbatorix was not satisfied until he could recite the spells with absolute perfection. Sometimes he had to say the words several times over, until both the pronunciation and the desired effect were satisfactory, both of which sapped his energy. It was a relief simply to lounge in the grass of their practice field and drink the elven liquor, relaxing as his strength was replenished.

Suddenly, Galbatorix turned to him and said, "Shruikan and Thorn intend to stay out late today – something about favourable wind patterns, I believe. We now have several hours at our disposal, and I think it's time you start learning about dark magic."

Upon hearing this, Murtagh inhaled a rather large amount of faelnirv, coughed and rolled to his hands and knees. Tears fell from his eyes as the sweet, thick liquid burned through his lungs. Galbatorix thumped him on the back as Murtagh, half blinded, half choked, gasped, "W – What?"

Galbatorix shook his head and hid a small smile behind a hand. "Dark magic, Murtagh. The power you need to truly become a Dragon Rider."

Wiping the tears from his eyes, Murtagh asked, "Why isn't the magic I already have enough?"

Galbatorix smirked. "Dark magic is exponentially more powerful than the magic with which you are familiar. It is a vastly complex art that provides untold numbers of new ways in which to apply the ancient language to do your bidding. If you know what you want, dark magic can grant it to you. If you know who your enemies are, dark magic can strike them down."

"Then I should have gone straight to dark magic, don't you think? Why did we waste time with the simpler form of magic?"

Galbatorix rose and pulled Murtagh to his feet. He led him over to a table and they sat down. Murtagh gazed over the western horizon, admiring the picture the setting sun made through the streaked clouds. The light was soft and grey, lending a calm tone to the overcast sky. It had been raining off and on through the better part of the day, and the air was humid and cool.

Galbatorix pulled Murtagh's attention back to himself and continued. "You have to walk before you can run, Murtagh – or at least, most people do. Dark magic requires an acute control of one's mind and senses. It is easy to let the power, which almost has a consciousness of its own, slip from your control. That is why you had to master simple magic first, to get the feel for it. But even that cannot compare to the real experience. The weak of spirit do not attempt to control dark magic for fear it will destroy them."

"I am not weak," Murtagh objected.

"Of course you aren't. Don't worry, Murtagh. I have complete confidence that you possess the force of will necessary to wield dark magic. Your mind and body are strong and you know no fear – only the desire for power."

Murtagh gaped. "But I don't – "

Galbatorix cut him off. "Yes, power, Murtagh. You hide the longing from yourself, but not even you can conceal it from me. I know your deepest desires, even if you do not. I can see that you lust to possess a power to raise you above others, your brother especially. And your father, too."

Murtagh was stunned. Where was Galbatorix getting this?

Galbatorix nodded grimly. "You wish to overshadow Morzan. You want to prove to yourself that your existence is not simply the fluke result of a coupling between two of the most powerful magic users the world has ever known: your father and his Black Hand. You have the opportunity to outshine even their greatest accomplishments if you will only learn what you must to control dark magic."

Murtagh didn't know how Galbatorix was drawing these conclusions. Even as he tried to deny them, he knew that his attempts were pointless. Murtagh could see that what Galbatorix said was true. If he was going to be honest with himself, he had to admit that. But Murtagh also knew that there was nothing wrong with wanting to rise above those who could not raise themselves.

"Exactly my point, Murtagh," said Galbatorix. "Wanting to control others is not a shameful desire. The people of my Empire are not capable of self-government. They need those like you and me to guide them to their full potential. Without us, they are sheep without their shepherd.

"You are better that other people, Murtagh. You must understand that. You can help me rule a peaceful Empire, with no need for war and rebellion. Everyone will be happy. So few are cut from the same cloth as you and I that we you must not let yourself, your power and your talents, go to waste. Your life is more valuable that those of the common people. They do not have your knowledge. In time, your wisdom will outreach theirs as well."

Murtagh agreed with Galbatorix there. He had known for a long time that he was suited to a better life than that of a lonely vagabond. Being a Dragon Rider, with all the power that that offered to him, was no less that Murtagh deserved.

"It is obvious, then, why the learning of dark magic is essential to your growth as a Rider," said Galbatorix. The two of them rose to a standing position.

"If this magic is so powerful, why don't the elves practice it? I though they were masters of the ancient language."

"As I have told you before, the elves are weak. They do not know of dark magic, they do not practice it; in fact, they flee from its power. They are cowards, champions of the meek, who refuse to see the true potential of dark magic. They are the ones who so wrongly named it in the first place. 'Dark' magic does not apply in the least to a power with such capabilities."

"And what are these capabilities?"

"Of course. Let us begin. Close your eyes, and look inside yourself."

As Murtagh had done on many an occasion, he let his eyelids drift closed as he focused his attention on his inner self. Even Galbatorix's presence in his mind faded as he concentrated on feeling absolutely nothing.

"Let the darkness fill you," instructed Galbatorix in the barest of whispers. "The light is harsh, it is bright, and it hurts. Turn away from the burning, and embrace the cool relief of darkness. It soothes the pain, and it eases your discomfort. You can hear the shadows – hear their whispers. They guide you, and they are the fuel of your power. Can you feel the power Murtagh?"

"I can feel it." Murtagh had almost forgotten the king was there, absorbed as he was in their exercise. He had been incredulous at first, but then he had started to feel a slight tingling sensation in the back of his mind. As he listened, the whispers, each separate voice no more discernable than the puffs of wind through the trees, became clearer, louder, until it was as if millions of tiny, irate beings were shouting at him from inside his own head. The sound was not unlike that which he had heard when Galbatorix had used spirits to grow Thorn.

"Yes," breathed Galbatorix. "This is what those fools refused to show me. The secrets of dark magic were forbidden to us as young Riders. It was an entirely untapped reserve of power, at least until I discovered it. If it had only been unlocked sooner, then perhaps we could have avoided the Dragon War altogether." Galbatorix circled Murtagh like a cat about to pounce. "How do you feel?" he asked.

"I'm – I'm angry." The realization surprised Murtagh. He hadn't recognized the cold fury pounding through him until Galbatorix had asked, but know he could feel it stronger than ever. Murtagh didn't know where it had come from, but he found himself shaking with suppressed rage. The voices in his head had risen to shouts, the cacophony inside him drowning out all else.

"Are you ready, Murtagh?'

"Tell me what I must do."

"Oh, I think it would be better if I simply allowed you to try dark magic for yourself." Galbatorix snapped his fingers. "If you are going to practice," he said, "I need the experience to be as real as possible."

Murtagh turned as a line of bound, gagged people emerged from the door. Their ankles were chained to a long rope as thick as Murtagh forearm and braided with steel threads. The chains were relatively loose, but still tight enough that the best the people could manage was a slow walk. If any of them tried to run, they would trip, and the entire line would fall.

Slaves.

There were men and women both, all shaved bald and wearing nothing more than filthy loincloths. There were deep cuts in the skin of their chests, new slashes over old scars. Some of those scars bled freely, as if they had been recently reopened. Several ferocious-looking guards circled the line lazily, leering at the women and whispering to each other. Occasionally, one of them would prod the slaves that didn't move fast enough with the tip of his spear. A few of the guards carried whips, which explained the angry red welts on the skin of their charges.

Murtagh had to suppress the low growl that was growing in the back of his throat. He _despised_ slavers.

One of the guards pulled a painfully thin slave from the rear of the line, removed the wad of black fabric that gagged her and thrust her to her knees in front of Murtagh. It took him a moment to realize she was female. The woman was perhaps thirty, though it was hard to tell her age through the grime. She was hollow-eyed and bony, and had the pinched look of someone who had not eaten a decent meal in months.

"Please!" she begged, tears falling freely down her face. "Please, I have little ones! They need me!" The slave crawled forward on her hands and knees and seized the hem of Murtagh's shirt. He stepped back with a cry of disgust. Murtagh found himself indifferent to this woman's plight. He wished she would stop whining.

The woman crumpled, her emaciated form racked with sobs. "Please, let me go!" she wailed. "My children! Mari! Lenna! Caleb! They'll die if I – "

Suddenly, the slave was cut off mid-cry. She clutched at her throat, her eyes bulging with terror. She tried to scream, but no sound came out. Panicking, the woman's eyes rolled back in her head and she fainted, landing with a heavy thump in the grass.

The other slaves watched in terrified silence.

It took several seconds for Murtagh's fury to begin to ebb.

Galbatorix stepped over and flipped the slave with the toe of his boot so that her limp form faced upwards. Prying her mouth open with his thumb and forefinger, the king peered inside and smiled. Then he waved a hand in the direction of the group of slaves. Immediately they all gazed pointedly away from the fallen woman. Murtagh knew that the king had temporarily diverted their attention so that they could speak without being overheard.

"Congratulations, Murtagh!" Galbatorix exclaimed. "I must admit I did not expect such a excellent result from your first try."

Murtagh frowned in confusion. "But I didn't do anything."

"Oh, but you most certainly did, Murtagh. Come and see."

Murtagh knelt beside Galbatorix and looked into the unconscious woman's mouth. To his intense surprise, he saw nothing at all. Past the woman's yellow half-rotted teeth, all that was left of her tongue was a gaping hole at the back of her throat. There was no blood; the wound was clean. In fact, there didn't appear to be a wound at all.

"Her tongue. It's just…gone," Murtagh whispered in awe.

"Gone," said Galbatorix, considering the word. "Yes, I think that's an appropriate term. Gone. Vanished."

"How?"

"Not how, Murtagh, but why. It is gone because you wanted it to be."

"I wanted -?"

"Of course," Galbatorix replied calmly. "If I remember correctly, you wanted the slave woman to stop her blathering. As you can see, she has."

"But I didn't say anything, or point, or…"

"You didn't need to. Your force of will, fuelled by the anger that comes with accessing dark magic, was enough to produce the spell. That must be why you are so naturally gifted at dark magic," said Galbatorix. "You're good at being angry."

The king continued. "This woman's tongue has not been cut out; it has simply ceased to be. It is as if it was never there at all. Even if you had used the ancient language, you would still have a severed tongue to deal with. Think of it this way - you can kill someone, but their dead body will remain. You can blind a man, but his unseeing eyes will still reside in his head. Instead, the use of dark magic can banish the object of your focus from life itself. Therefore, if you killed a person with dark magic, the body would disappear completely. The man would be blind not because his eyes have stopped functioning properly, but because he has no eyes at all."

Then a thought came to Murtagh. "Whatwould happen if you banished a living person?" he inquired. "Does it work the same way?"

Galbatorix paused, frowning slightly. "Imagine that," he said quietly. "A spell to stop a person from being. As you have rightly pointed out, Murtagh, killing a person with dark magic is not the same as banishing him. Even if you were to kill him, the soul would be severed before the body disappeared. I would have to think that, were the magic used on a living person, the soul would depart as well. I shall have to consider it further."

Murtagh shivered. "When you say depart," he said, trying to keep his mind off his horror, "where is it that these objects go, exactly?"

"They are, as you so rightfully put it, gone," answered the king. "Not even I know where it is that they go. It is a world other than the one that we inhabit, that I can say for certain."

Murtagh scoffed. "You mean to tell me that there is another world somewhere, full of bodies and eyeballs and tongues?"

"Yes and no," said Galbatorix said thoughtfully, ignoring the skepticism in Murtagh's tone. "They cease to be - I'm afraid that's as clear as I can make the concept." The corners of his mouth twitched slightly. "Banished objects are - if you'll pardon the pun - neither here nor there."

Murtagh stared. He had been in the king's company for over a month, but this was the first time that Galbatorix had actually sounded mad.

"You have to understand, Murtagh, it's a very complex art. I don't know the details, but, well, I don't need to. I only need to know that it works."

_Well,_ thought Murtagh. _That doesn't make one whit of sense._

Galbatorix rose and dusted off his robes. "I don't expect you to understand it right away, but the point remains that if you know the basics, you can perform the spell. There is no need to delve further into this branch of dark magic when we have what we need already."

That made Murtagh uneasy. If Galbatorix didn't know everything there was to know about this power, how could he use it safely? What if there were more consequences to using dark magic than were immediately apparent?

Galbatorix looked Murtagh in the eye as he pulled him to his feet. "Murtagh, I discovered dark magic. I am the only one who knows _anything_ about it."

"But –"

Galbatorix raised a hand. "No more, Murtagh. I will not have you questioning my judgement. I know what I need to know and that is the end of that."

Murtagh was still burning with curiosity, but he knew it would be far wiser simply to let the matter drop.

"Now," continued Galbatorix, "I think we should wake our friend here." He snapped his fingers and the woman's brown eyes popped open with such vigour that it was hard to believe she had been out cold a second before. As soon as she was again conscious, the woman resumed the scrabbling at her throat, feeling for the tongue that no longer was.

Galbatorix gently pulled the woman's hands away from herself. "Enough of that," he told the slave. "As you have no doubt noticed, my apprentice has succeeded in removing your tongue. I'm afraid you will never speak again."

The woman's eyes widened and filled with tears. She shook her head wildly, once again trying to claw at her neck, but Galbatorix held firm. The tears fell thick and fast as she emitted a low gurgling noise, the most sound her ruined throat could manage.

"It's really not a problem, you know," he said. "I much prefer slaves that are mute. They aren't nearly as contrary."

Galbatorix stood and let the sobbing slave rise on her own. He snapped his fingers again, and one of the guards that had led the line of slaves shook himself from his stupor and stepped forward. The muscular man grabbed the woman's arm and led her, still weeping, back inside the castle.

As Murtagh watched the slave and the guard leave, he felt as sudden pain in his gut. Caught completely unawares by the sharp pang, Murtagh clutched at his stomach and winced.

The pain subsided as quickly as it had come. "What was that?" he demanded.

"Ah, yes," said Galbatorix. "It seems you have discovered the most important rule of dark magic by yourself."

"That it hurts?"

"Actually yes, in a way. I believe you already know the answer. It is the most essential law of regular magic as well."

Murtagh needed no prompting to remember that rule. "Every spell you use takes a toll on your own body. Whatever you do with magic takes the same amount of energy as it would if you did it without."

"Correct. Meaning…?"

"That dark magic has a price as well?"

"Of course." It was impossible to read the expression in Galbatorix's back eyes. "Except that instead of paying in energy, it is your soul that is the price of using dark magic."

"Excuse me?" Murtagh exclaimed, horrified. "My _soul_?" He groped at his stomach, at the spot where he had felt the excruciating pain not a minute earlier, as if feeling for the part of his soul that had left him.

"Your soul, Murtagh," replied Galbatorix. "It's really nothing to worry about. I've been using dark magic for years and nothing's happened to me. It is my theory, however, that a tiny part of your soul, so infinitesimal that is it undetectable by any magic that I or anyone possesses, now resides in the void where that woman's tongue no longer is."

"That's impossible."

"Do you really think so?" Galbatorix asked. "I've seen things, done things that many would think are impossible, and yet…" the king trailed off, and then said, "But one thing I learned is that everything has a price."

"But you don't expend actual energy," Murtagh pointed out. "Why should there be a price?"

"Because everything, every action in the world, must have a balance. Pay now or later, with your own substance or someone else's, but pay you will. Using dark magic to banish something creates a void where the banished object should be.

"It is comparable to a building, I suppose," said Galbatorix thoughtfully. "If you remove too many of the columns that support the roof, the building is going to collapse. A tiny piece of your soul is sacrificed to fill the vacuum left by the use of dark magic, lest the world itself collapse."


	20. Chapter 20

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 20

Murtagh's next several days in Uru'baen seemed to fly by. Galbatorix continued his instruction in dark magic. After practice, accessing the shadows in the back of his mind that were the fuel to his power became easier. Murtagh barely needed to think before the voices rose in volume and the rage that was not his thundered through his body.

After he had mastered the art of banishment, Galbatorix taught Murtagh other forms of dark magic as well. He learned how to condense a crackling shaft of energy that was useful for piercing magical wards. The king told Murtagh words in the ancient language that no one had used before him, phrases that had been forgotten for hundreds of years.

Galbatorix's invented spells astounded Murtagh, with their simplicity as well as by their raw power. It had taken him several attempts to master his spells. Even though the majority of them were one- or two-word phrases, the amount of energy requires to use them correctly was enormous.

Murtagh also learned, to his mixed horror and fascination, what had become of Drac'ner. After seeing the blank black eyes of the slave Galbatorix had interrogated, Murtagh had felt mildly nauseated. It disgusted him that he had carried such an evil weapon, one he had seen as a memento of Tornac, his teacher, for so long.

Between practicing dark magic, Murtagh began learning to fight from Thorn's back. At first it had been more terrifying than exhilarating to hang upside down a hundred feet from the ground, his only support being his legs, which were secured tightly to the saddle. Murtagh had had to practice many aerial stunts on dragonback before he was comfortable enough to try to manage a sword at the same time. He had dropped his hand-and-a-half sword several times before he could maintain his grip, and Thorn had to swoop low to retrieve it before it hit the ground.

After a time, Murtagh found that, however difficult it was, he enjoyed fighting from Thorn's back. The thrill it gave him was worth the fear.

The same was true for much that Galbatorix taught him. The use of dark magic, for example, which Murtagh saw as horrific and wonderful at the same time, gave him such a high that he forgot what he was actually doing. He forgot that he was learning things that went against everything that he had ever been taught. He forgot that he was manipulating energy in ways that were shunned by most magic users for their foulness. All Murtagh felt was the ecstasy of power.

Nearly a week of this had passed before Galbatorix reminded Murtagh of something he had shoved to the back of his mind and tried to forget for nearly three weeks.

"You will need to go to the tailor's today," said Galbatorix as the rested between spells.

"What for?"

"Don't you remember? You need to get your dress clothes sized for the ball tomorrow."

It was with an ominous sinking sensation in his stomach that Murtagh remembered the court ball. Of course he had forgotten; Murtagh hated parties. He had spent most of his youth avoiding them.

Galbatorix glanced upwards to check the position of the sun. It was already mid-afternoon. "In fact," he said, "You should go now. It's getting late."

Murtagh nodded sullenly and trudged off towards the tailor's shop. He had only been there a few times before, to get his ripped clothes patched or to buy new clothes when he outgrew his own. It was in the northwestern part of the castle on the ground floor, surrounded by other tradesmen's shops: the milliners, the tanners and the cobblers were also here.

On his way to the tailor's he passed a door on the right of the row over which hung a sign that read "open" in ornate cast iron letters wrought to look like vines: the blacksmith's shop was just where Murtagh remembered it. Peering inside, he saw tall a man standing behind a worktable, rubbing what looked to be a small knife with a polishing cloth.

It was Jacob, one of Murtagh's closest friends.

Murtagh stepped silently inside the shop. Pretending not to see Jacob, Murtagh browsed idly through a row of tiny belt knives. Selecting one of them, Murtagh brought it to the worktable and asked, "How much for this?"

"Three silvers," Jacob said without looking up.

"How much for me?"

Jacob glanced up, the annoyed expression on his face breaking into a smile when he saw who it was. "Murtagh!" he exclaimed. He set down the knife and polishing cloth and stepped around the table, embracing his old friend warmly. "It's been ages! Where've you been?"

"Around." Murtagh cast around for a change of subject. "What about you? You were just an apprentice when I last saw you."

Jacob shrugged, his curly brown hair flopping into his blue-grey eyes. His olive skin was well tanned and his body muscular. "I took over the business when Frederick died. I guess you could say I own this place now."

Murtagh gazed around the shop. In addition to the fine weaponry that Jacob was famous for, he saw other metal ornaments. Delicate ladies' brooches and hair clips adorned the shelves, as well as small, pretty trinkets of no discernable use. "I didn't know you had such a talent for finery."

"I don't. Sylvia made those."

"Sylvia?"

"My apprentice," Jacob responded. "She's about thirteen years old and one of the best metal-workers I've ever seen. Very skilled when it comes to baubles and such like. It's a good thing, too - I'd just make a botch of it. Weapons are my work."

Murtagh gestured to the belt knife that still lay on the worktable. "Speaking of weapons, you didn't answer my question. How much?"

Jacob laughed. "For you? Four silvers."

"I'll take it," said Murtagh with a grin. "Bill the price to the king."

Jacob raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Once again eager to change the subject, Murtagh said. "You'd better go the coffin-maker and order me a box."

"Why?"

"I'm supposed to visit the tailor and get my clothes for the ball tomorrow."

Jacob made a face. "Don't tell me you're actually going to that!"

"I don't have a choice. I've been issued a royal command."

Jacob grasped Murtagh's shoulder. "It's been nice knowing you," he said soberly.

"If I don't make it, you can have my sword." Murtagh replied, equally serious. "I really should be going, though."

The two friends clasped hands. Murtagh stuck the knife in his belt and turned for the door as Jacob took up the cloth and continued polishing the dagger.

A bell chimed when Murtagh pushed open the door of the tailor's shop. An older woman looked up from her desk. "Can I help you, sir?"

"I'm here to pick up some dress clothes. Special order from the king."

"Ah, yes. Right this way, please." The led them to the back of the shop, where there was a raised platform, a mirror and several curtained dressing rooms. Handing Murtagh a bundle of black cloth, the brusque seamstress shooed him behind a curtain and left him to change.

When he finished, Murtagh stepped up onto the platform and appraised himself in the full-length tailor's mirror. He wore a black velvet tunic with silver brocade detailing along the collar and cuffs over a wool shirt of the same colour. The shirt had full, billowing sleeves and tightened at the wrists. Sable velvet hose were tucked into calf-high leather boots with ornate silver buckles.

The seamstress bustled around him, pinning the garment to the appropriate length and fiddling with places that were too loose. Galbatorix had obviously given the seamstress his approximate size.

Murtagh sighed. He had to admit that he looked very elegant, but the outfit itched like mad! He tried to hike up his shirt so that he could give his ribs a good scratch, and promptly stuck himself with a pin.

Murtagh winced as the seamstress concealed a smile. "Better let me do that," she said, and carefully removed the tunic and shirt and hung them both on the mannequin. "I'll change the shirt material to silk. It's not as hot and it won't itch as much." She sighed. "Darned if I know why his Majesty wanted velvet at this time of year."

Murtagh thanked her and headed behind the curtain to change back into his cotton shirt, leather jerkin, breeches and his boots.

With a nod to the seamstress, Murtagh left the shop and traipsed off to his rooms. Galbatorix had not told him that he needed to report back to him, so Murtagh assumed he had the rest of the day to do as he liked.

When he reached his suite, Murtagh let himself, removed his boots and sat down on his bed. Even as he sat, he felt his eyelids begin to droop. It had been a long week, and he would be glad for a short nap. For the first time since Galbatorix had grown Thorn to full size, Murtagh slept in his own bed.

The sun was just beginning to set when the screeching of the birds outside jarred him awake. Murtagh yawned. He could definitely have done with a bit more sleep. Glancing outside to find out what had scared the birds, Murtagh saw that Thorn had just swooped in as was settling himself in his shelter.

Deciding to greet his friend, Murtagh swung himself off the bed and reached for his boots. He sat on the stair outside the double doors leading to the meadow.

As Murtagh bent to lace his boots, his dark hair fell into his eyes. Brushing it aside with an annoyed sigh, he realized that his hair fell past his shoulders. He had not cut it for months. How had he not noticed before now?

Murtagh supposed he should go the palace barber to have it cut, but then a thought struck him: could he not simply use magic to remove the unwanted hair? He was sure enough of his skill, and he didn't feel like walking all the way to the barber.

Gathering himself, Murtagh condensed a razor-thin edge of air with a quiet "Thrysta." Guiding the spell with his mind, he passed the blade of air an three inches above where his hair fell, slicing it neatly off, until it was just below his chin. He had but a finger's breadth of hair left to cut when the sudden shriek of a bird jarred his concentration. His hand twitched.

Grumbling a curse on birds, Murtagh reached up to feel at his hair. Sure enough, a piece on the left side of his face was a good two inches to short.

Murtagh could hear Thorn's low chuckle in his mind. The dragon was laughing at him.

Murtagh contemplated what to do next. Finally, he muttered, "Eldhrimner," concentrating all his attention on the too-short piece of hair. He held the spell for about five seconds. The feeling of his hair shooting out of his scalp was extremely strange, and he was glad to end the spell.

Checking his reflection in the window, Murtagh smiled. His hair was now perfectly normal.

If Murtagh hadn't known better, he could have sworn that Thorn was smirking at him when he reached the metal structure.

_Don't say a word,_ Murtagh ordered silently. He lay down in the soft, sweet-smelling hay beside Thorn.

I wasn't going to.

* * *

A/N: Jacob is based on my little brother, who asked if he could show up as a blacksmith. He thinks, if we lived in a time when such things were common, that's what he would have been.

- Miss Maddie


	21. Chapter 21

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 21 

The following evening, Murtagh looked out on the setting sun with a growing sense of trepidation. He was waiting for the mental message from Galbatorix to let him know when it was time to go to the dining hall, where the king's grand ball was to be held.

Thorn, the lucky bastard, was already settling himself for sleep in his shelter.

The only good thing that came with this ball was that Murtagh had been given the day to himself to prepare. As per Galbatorix's orders, he had slept an hour longer than usual, the king explaining that he needed to be well-rested.

Murtagh had spent the morning doing easy stretching and running exercises in his back meadow. Then, he had done many repetitions of the first level of the Rimgar, a series of poses that Galbatorix had taught him. Combining flexibility, strength and balance, the challenging postures had been invented by the elves, and were used to prepare warriors for battle as well as simply to stay in shape. Murtagh had been awed after watching Galbatorix perform the fourth, most difficult level perfectly, and had longed to try the twisting poses himself. However, he soon learned that the first level of the Rimgar would be the most he would be able to manage for some time – even that was tricky.

When he finished the Rimgar, Murtagh had bathed and changed into the pretty new clothes that had been left on his doorstep early that morning. He had combed his hair and brushed his teeth. For the first time in several months, Murtagh felt properly clean.

The sun was just beginning to set. Galbatorix would call for him any minute.

Murtagh stood on the stone patio outside his rooms, watching Thorn. The dragon's sleepy presence in his mind reached him from across the meadow.

_I would wish you good luck, _Thorn said,_ but I don't really know what this ball entails. _

_ There's to be a lot of eating food that's too rich and dancing with ladies I don't know, _Murtagh responded._ You would hate it. _He gazed around the meadow, wishing he could just stay here. _I suppose 'good luck' is an appropriate sentiment_, he said_. I'm going to need it. _

As if on cue, Murtagh felt a tickle in the back of his mind. _It's time. _

Groaning inwardly, Murtagh set off towards the dining hall. Galbatorix had told him earlier that day to wait in the antechamber off the hall until he was called forward. Murtagh took a roundabout route and arrived in the torch-lit chamber where Galbatorix had tested his skill in swordplay a month ago. The door to the dining hall was closed, but he could still hear the chatter of nobles, army officers and other dignitaries as they trickled into the hall. Murtagh's heart sunk lower with every passing second.

At long last, the noise began to die down. Murtagh could only assume that the guests had taken their seats. He heard the scraping of a heavy chair against flagstone, and then the sound of Galbatorix's voice as it echoed around the cavernous room.

"Welcome!" said the king to his subjects. "Welcome, my dear friends. I hope you all found your lodgings comfortable?" There was a smattering of polite applause. "Excellent! I am honoured to be in the company of such esteemed guests tonight, and it is my great pleasure to be the one to house and entertain you during this troubled time. As you all know, the war has dwindled our resources. It is my hope, however, that it has not weakened our spirits!" The crowd clapped again, louder this time. "The presentation of young nobles has been a tradition of this court for longer than I'm sure many of you can remember - " laughs from the audience " – and I don't think any of us believe such a time-honoured custom should be sacrificed in light of the present climate. And so, I present to you this year's class of young nobles, straight from Lady Isabel's convent school in Teirm!"

Murtagh couldn't help it. Crossing to the door, he pushed it open a fraction of an inch and peered outside into the hall. Hundreds of nobles in their finest attire applauded as a line of twenty or so young men and women emerged from the back of the hall. The walked slowly and gracefully to the head table, where the men bowed and the women made deep curtsies. Galbatorix acknowledged them with a nod of his head.

Then a herald stepped forward and read their names and the names of their home cities off a long scroll. When he finished, they bowed or curtsied again, both to Galbatorix and the audience. Galbatorix waved the young nobles to an empty table at the front of the hall and they sat down.

"Congratulations!" called Galbatorix, pitching his voice over the din, which began to fade. "Though your chosen paths differ greatly, I hope that each and every one of you will become a credit to your respective cities. Now, before we begin our delectable feast, there is one more person you need to meet."

Murtagh felt an odd swooping sensation in his stomach that had nothing to do with his hunger.

Galbatorix continued. "This man is the very reason the rebels have not come knocking at your castle doors – nor will they ever! You all sleep soundly in your homes because of what he is working to accomplish for the sake of the peaceful Empire that you all want to enjoy."

_That's laying it on a bit thick,_ thought Murtagh wryly.

Galbatorix's voice continued from the other side of the door. "He is the son of my greatest ally and a new hope for the Empire! I present Dragon Rider Murtagh Morzansson!"

Murtagh pushed open the door to the hall to the sound of tumultuous applause. Thunderous his welcome was, Murtagh could sense an uncertainty in that made him uneasy. People here were only clapping to blend in with those around them. The ovation was punctuated with astonished whispers that spread from the front of the hall to the back like a wave of water:

"Dragon Rider, did he say?"

"That's what I heard."

"A _Dragon Rider?_"

"No, that's impossible!"

Murtagh joined Galbatorix at the head table and looked out over the crowd, glaring at anyone who dared catch his eye. He hoped these people would recognize his contempt and leave him be. Murtagh sat in the chair Galbatorix offered him, right beside his own throne-like seat. Murtagh noticed that the king wore a sharp, pointed crown on his bald head, an ornament he had never seen before.

As the last of the applause finally died, Galbatorix's voice rang once again over the crowd. "I know the real reason you're all here," he said. "It's not to honour your sons and daughters, nor is it to welcome my new Rider. No, it's to eat!" The crowd roared its approval. "Let the feast begin!"

Galbatorix snapped his fingers. Hundreds of silver platters and goblets on the tables instantly filled themselves with food and drink of every description.

The crowd gasped its amazement, applauding further.

Murtagh rolled his eyes. Not only was Galbatorix expending magic on frivolities, he was also feasting his nobles while the rest of his country starved. What a waste.

Pulling a steak, some mashed potatoes and a heap of spring vegetables on to his plate, Murtagh ate quickly and silently, ignoring the older nobleman on his right. Thankfully, the man followed his lead and didn't try to make conversation. Galbatorix was chatting animatedly with the man on his other side, leaving Murtagh to eat his meal in peace.

His tactic of unobtrusive silence worked all the way through his desert course. Galbatorix snapped his fingers yet again, and the last of the cakes melted from the silver plates. He stood up and called "I hope you have all enjoyed the feast! Now, if my young lords and ladies would please join me on the dance floor?"

The group of young nobles that had been introduced earlier stood and strode to the centre of the highly polished wooden floor. The men bowed to the ladies, who curtsied in turn. Then, a group of minstrels struck up a fast waltz, and they began to dance. Soon other couples from around the tables stood and joined them, until the hall was filled with dancing, laughing people. Shaven-headed slaves wearing clean white robes and carrying platters walked carefully around the edges of the dance floor, offering wine, mead and tea to the nobles who weren't dancing.

This was the part that Murtagh had been dreading the most. Before the Galbatorix could force him to dance with some noble lady, he excused himself from the table and headed for a dimly lit nook behind the head dais, which earned him a glare from the king. He ignored it leaned against the wall, dong his best to avoid the gazes of the many nobles that spun by him as they danced, trying to get a better look at the mysterious newcomer. He kept to the shadows as much as he could, but found that he could not avoid the courtiers' open stares for very long.

He wanted to sit on the floor, but Murtagh knew that Galbatorix would not allow him to muss his fancy new clothes. Still, standing where he was, as far removed from the public eye as possible, was infinitely preferable to a seat at the head table. There, he would be thrust under the noses of countless nobles whose names he would be expected to remember, who would try to bow and scrape their way into the king's good graces by befriending his Rider. Their false smiles made Murtagh cringe.

Murtagh sighed and blessed his dark clothes, trying his best to blend in with the shadows.

Chancing a quick peek onto the dance floor, Murtagh saw a couple after couple whirl past his hiding place, most of them glancing momentarily his way before moving on. One of these young women Murtagh recognized as being among those that had been formally presented alongside him. The herald had announced her as Bethany of Ceunon. Even as he watched, another young man detached himself from her circle of admirers and asked for a dance.

Murtagh supposed that to some, Bethany of Ceunon could be beautiful. She was quite pretty, he decided, in a generic sort of way. Light brown curls fluttered gently down her back as one of many nameless gentlemen twirled her around the dance floor. Her eyes were a warm honey-brown, framed with long black lashes. Her smile, if rather vapid, showed off very white, even teeth.

Murtagh, however, had never been attracted to the shapely maidens that so often frequented Galbatorix's court. Bethany possessed no real uniqueness. She was exactly the same as every other lady presented to the court on feast days. Murtagh preferred exotic beauties, with some sort of intellectual stamina.

Nasuada was exotic.

Murtagh didn't really know how she had popped into his mind, but found himself imagining her. He had always found Nasuada alluring. The large, almond-shaped eyes that possessed a sense of regal power. The way she carried herself like a noble princess. He rich, deeply brown skin.

The way she filled out her –

_ Stop it_, Murtagh chided himself firmly. _Don't think about her like that. Besides, she never noticed you. Blast it; she's the leader of the Varden now. She'd never want a traitor like you._

Though Murtagh had never thought about it that way before, he supposed he was a traitor. The Varden had finally accepted him, and he had sided with Galbatorix. He had betrayed them.

_But it's not my fault_, Murtagh exclaimed inwardly. _It was never my fault. I was kidnapped, damn it! I had no choice!_

_ You're just making excuses. You could have run, somehow. You could have returned to the Varden._

_ They never would have taken me back._

_ You don't know that. How do you know that Nasuada wouldn't just have been glad to see you alive? They all think you're dead, you know. Eragon, Saphira, Nasuada. Everyone._

_ Shut up, _Murtagh told himself.

As much as he hated to admit it, Murtagh missed Nasuada. She had often visited him in his cell after he had refused the Twins' entrance into his mind, listening carefully as he recounted his own version of his life. Nasuada was the only person who had ever accepted Murtagh for who he was, instead of judging him for who his father had been. The two had spent long hours together, talking softly, or even just reading in silence.

The best thing about Nasuada was that she had never tried to persuade Murtagh to let the Twins into his mind. Though she pitied his solitary existence in the underground prison, and wished better for him, she alone appreciated his need for privacy.

Of course Murtagh's cell had been warm and comfortable, and he had been given everything he wanted, as long as he didn't cause trouble. But it had been rather lonesome. The only time he had talked to anyone was when Eragon or Nasuada had come to visit. The vast majority of his time had been spent alone, counting the cracks in the walls when he grew tired of reading. 

_ Yes_, Murtagh thought ruefully, _I miss her_.

Gazed blandly at Bethany, who was dancing with yet another young nobleman, Murtagh idly fingered the silver brocade detailing on his black dress tunic. The garment was still uncomfortable, even after the seamstress had changed the material. He longed for the comfort of his old clothes. Murtagh knew the finery was just for show, but couldn't help but think that Galbatorix could have come up with a better way to impress his court. The king wasn't the one that had to suffer the indignity of wearing hose.

Lost in his boredom as he was, Murtagh barely noticed as Bethany sidled up to him, resplendent in a violet silk gown. "Aren't you going to ask me to dance?" she asked, a flirtatious smile dancing on her full pink lips. "Everyone else has."

"No," replied Murtagh simply, without meeting her simpering gaze. Though Galbatorix would surely berate him later for his rudeness, Murtagh hardly cared now. A long time ago, he had learned how to dance, but enjoyed it about as much as he did having a splinter extracted.

"Come on, now, Rider," said Bethany, tugging lightly on his arm. "It's our presentation day. We have to dance." She eyed Galbatorix, who was watching the festivities from his throne-like chair. "His Majesty expects it of us."

Murtagh glanced over at Galbatorix, who gave him the tiniest of nods, accompanied by a stern glare. _Get moving, Murtagh, _the king said.

Murtagh didn't need the mental message to understand what the look meant. He allowed himself one pleading glance, and was rewarded with the mental equivalent of a firm shove forward. Grudgingly, he took Bethany's arm, and let her lead him onto the dance floor as the band struck up a slower waltz. Taking her small waist in his arms as he had been taught to do, Murtagh let his mind detach from his body. Bethany chattered on about this and that, everything and nothing: the goings-on at court, life at her home in Ceunon, the Empire's northernmost city.

Bethany left him terribly bored. Though she had much to say, there was very little that was of any interest to him.

"It's very quiet, up in Ceunon," she babbled. "Not much happens, you see. Other than the Traders setting up their headquarters there a few years ago, the last excitement we had was when a tree got knocked over in a storm and crushed a barn. It killed one of the farmer's cows, I heard. My father's workers spent weeks cleaning it up. Those are my parents over there," Bethany said, finally taking a breath. She nodded to a stiff-looking elderly couple not far from the head table. "Duke Tarrant and Duchess Cyrilla. Don't mind them. They're not much for court functions."

"Neither am I," said Murtagh through gritted teeth, wishing Bethany would take the hint. It was the first real comment he had offered since she had approached him. The lady was making his head hurt.

"You're not even trying to enjoy yourself," accused Bethany with a pout. "If you keep sulking like this, Mother will swat me with her fan for not entertaining you." She giggled softly at her own joke.

Murtagh sighed. He _loathed_ giggles.

He wished he could be with Thorn.

As he and Bethany spun past one of the many long tables, Murtagh noticed a young woman, within a few months of his own age, sitting by herself, watching the couples dance. Her dark, wavy hair was pulled back from her face and left to fall to the middle of her back, offsetting the lady's creamy skin. Her simple, navy blue dress, looser than fashion dictated, was long-sleeved and unadorned with the ribbons and bows that the other court ladies seemed to favour. To his intense surprise, Murtagh could just see the faint outlines of flat-hilted daggers at the lady's neck, the small of her back and her wrists.

His interest piqued, Murtagh spun Bethany, who was still chattering at him, over to where a group of young, partnerless men were laughing merrily. Catching the eye of a tall, curly-haired blond man that looked to be a few years older than himself, Murtagh sent him a pointed look and a very slight nod.

Recognizing his intent, the man excused himself from his comrades and approached Murtagh and Bethany.

"May I cut in?" he asked, tapping Murtagh on the shoulder.

"Of course," said Murtagh with a smile and wordless _thank you_. "Lady Bethany," he said curtly.

Before he could turn away, Bethany lifted a dainty hand and stared at him expectantly. It took Murtagh a moment to realize that she wanted him to kiss it. Murtagh groaned inwardly. Keeping his eyes stuck resolutely to the polished floor, he lifted her outstretched hand to his mouth. His lips grazed the lily-soft skin for the barest instant before he let it drop. Bethany frowned, her full lips pouted.

The blond man took Bethany, who still looked a tad put out, in his arms and whirled her away. Murtagh turned, heading back the way he had come, to where the dark-haired woman was still sitting.

Murtagh cleared his throat. "Pardon me, my lady, but would you care to - ?"

But the woman cut him off mid-sentence, not lifting her gaze. "There are plenty of other available ladies if my lord would like to dance." Her tone, though polite, was sharp.

Murtagh tried a different tact. "Would you prefer to go for a walk, then?"

The lady looked up, her deep blue eyes widening in surprise when she saw who addressed her. She was silent for a second, then regained her composure and said, "Why, yes, I – I would love to, my lord Dragon Rider."

"It's Murtagh," he replied. "Just Murtagh."

Still looking a little nervous, the lady rested her hand on Murtagh's arm and he led her out one of the side doors to an outside terrace. It was a beautiful evening. A full moon was just beginning to rise in the clear sky, illuminating the twisting cobblestone paths. The rosebushes were alive with fireflies, twinkling bright in the twilight. The air was cool and sweet, a welcome change from the stuffy, oppressive heat of the dining hall.

As the pair set off down the path, Murtagh asked, "What is your name, Lady - ?"

"Teresa of Furnost," she replied, naming a small city several leagues south of Uru'baen, on the northern shore of Lake Tudosten. He recognized her name from the list the herald had read. "But if you are to be 'Just Murtagh,' then I insist you call me 'Just Teresa.'"

"Very well – Teresa."

"You weren't enjoying yourself back there, were you?" It wasn't really a question. Teresa's directness surprised Murtagh, who grinned wryly. "Could you tell?"

"I saw you dancing with Bethany. Excuse me for saying so, but you looked like you were in pain."

"I must confess that I, like yourself, am not privy to the glamour of court social functions," said Murtagh, mocking a courtier's flourishing air. "And she did step on my foot once."

This drew a laugh from Teresa. It was a lovely sound, light and musical, not at all like Bethany's shrill giggle.

Murtagh and Teresa walked in comfortable silence for a while, until Murtagh said, "Actually, there is a reason I asked you here." He led her to a bench, where they sat down. Taking her hand in his, he said, "You carry daggers with you." If Teresa could be direct, then so could Murtagh. Slipping a finger inside the sleeve of her gown, he pulled the slim, flat-bladed weapon from its wrist sheath and laid it in her small hand. "I would like to know why."

Teresa's eyes went wide in astonishment, tainted with a touch of fear. "You could see them?" she gasped.

"Yes, but they were well hidden. I doubt any who didn't know exactly what to look for would notice."

"Please understand, Murtagh, any weapons I have are for self-defence only. I would never dream of…" Teresa trailed off, but Murtagh knew what she meant.

"Of course not," said Murtagh quickly. "I was only curious. Daggers at a court ball?"

"One can never be too careful," was Teresa's cool reply. "One of the first lessons I learned as a young girl was to carry a weapon at all times."

"I understand," said Murtagh, pulling Argedauth, the dagger Galbatorix had given him, from his boot and offering it to her.

Teresa took the dagger, inspecting the simple wire-wrapped hilt. Running her hands over the tempered steel, she checked the weight and balance with a practiced eye. She turned the knife this way and that, letting it catch the moonlight and reflect it into her eyes, which were bright with admiration. Flicking a fingernail against the opal set into the pommel, Teresa smiled in satisfaction at the ringing, bell-like peal. Then, tossing the blade into the air, Teresa let it flip end over end several times before it thunked neatly back into her palm. She passed it hilt-first back to Murtagh. "This is beautiful," she said, almost reverently.

"You obviously have an eye for the art form." Murtagh said as he stowed Argedauth and they set off once again down the winding path. He was pleased to note that Teresa, unlike many women Murtagh's age, was more than capable of upholding a conversation that wasn't banal.

"Oh, yes," replied Teresa, her fair cheeks colouring slightly. "I know it's hardly a ladylike pastime, but I've always had an abiding interest in weapons of all kinds. In fact," she said a little smugly, "my family's most prized possession is a sword that we believe is centuries old. It's quite odd, really. The blade is bright orange, and it has a matching gemstone set into the pommel. It doesn't appear to have ever been sharpened, and yet it can slice through a single hair."

Murtagh gaped. "That sounds like a Rider's sword!" he exclaimed.

"Really? How do you know?"

"They were all made like that. The blade and gemstone match the colour of the dragon's scales, and they are spelled so they never dull."

Teresa smiled widely. "I knew the sword was ancient, but I had no idea it once belonged to a Rider." Suddenly, her face fell. "The king…he won't try and take it from us, will he?"

"He may," said Murtagh grimly, remembering the room off the armoury that was filled with Rider's swords. "He does consider such things his by right."

"You won't tell him?" Teresa turned to face him, looking him straight in the eye, her voice deadly serious. He could tell how important this was to her.

"I won't - er, _tell_ him, but I can't promise he won't find out," admitted Murtagh, and his face, too, became downcast. "He may know even now. The two of us are...connected. I can keep no secrets from him, whether or not I wanted to."

"You mean he - ?"

Murtagh nodded soberly. Though he doubted she knew of the magic of true names, it was obvious Teresa understood the power the king held over him.

"Very well," she said, her voiced edged with glum resignation. "I suppose it's just a sword, after all. But it really is a shame; I would have liked to study it further, now that I know what it really is."

Teresa paused for a moment and glanced back to the entrance to the hall. The sounds of music and conversation, which had been boisterous when they left, were beginning to fade. When Teresa spoke again, her words carried a tone of finality. "We should get back - it sounds like they're wrapping up."

Murtagh nodded, suddenly wishing the subject of the Rider's sword had not been broached. He pulled himself back into the moment and the two of them turned and headed back up the path until they reached the glassed double doors, still thrown wide onto the terrace.

Stepping back into the public eye, Teresa curtsied gracefully and Murtagh managed a passable bow. Taking her hand, her brought it to his lips and kissed it gently.

Teresa smiled. If she was upset at the possibility of losing the sword, she did not show it. "Good night, Rider Murtagh," she said.

"Good night, my lady."

Teresa turned and, with a swish of her navy skirts, she stepped out the main doors and was gone.

There weren't many people left in the dining hall, most having left while Murtagh and Teresa were out walking. As the bell for the first hour after midnight chimed, Murtagh headed back to his rooms. He took a lesser-travelled route to avoid the nobles as they, too, returned to their private suites.

When he reached his own, Murtagh shed his fancy clothes and donned a pair of loose cotton breeches and a shirt. Yawning, he crossed the meadow to where Thorn was asleep. Murtagh was glad for that – he didn't feel like recounting all that had happened at the ball just yet. Settling himself in the hay, Murtagh closed his tired eyes.

He woke with a start just moments after he fell asleep, realizing only then that today was his nineteenth birthday.

* * *

A/N: So there it is. After hemming and hawing for months about whether or not to completely delete the Teresa subplot, I've decided to keep it, but it will be altered significantly. Thanks to everyone who put up with the long wait. More chapters are on the way.

- Miss Maddie


	22. Chapter 22

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 22

The next morning, Murtagh joined Galbatorix for breakfast in the dining hall, which had been thoroughly cleaned overnight. The many long tables had been returned to their usual positions around the dance floor, which had been meticulously polished. All the scuff marks from the night before had been removed, and the wooden floor shone so brightly that Murtagh supposed he could have seen his reflection in it, if he had bothered to look. Instead, he fixed his gaze on the head table, where the king was waiting, as usual.

Galbatorix remained mute all through the meal. When both he and Murtagh were finished eating, they sat in an awkward silence for a full minute before Galbatorix finally looked at Murtagh and asked, "When are you going to get my sword?"

Murtagh's heart sank. He had known all along that there was no chance of keeping a secret from the king. He knew there was nothing he could say, but decided to play innocent anyway.

"I – I don't know what you mean."

"Nice try, Murtagh," snapped Galbatorix. "Young Teresa is a pretty little thing, isn't she? But to carry daggers at a ball hosted by her king?" He shook his head and tutted disapprovingly. "Terrible form. And hiding a Rider's sword from me all these years?"

"She didn't know." Murtagh interjected suddenly. "Teresa didn't know it was a Rider's sword until I told her. She did nothing wrong."

"Even so," Galbatorix replied. " Whether or not _she_ knew the truth about the sword, I find it hard to believe that her father, Lord Hector, did not make the connection. Orange, did she say the blade was?"

Murtagh nodded.

"Yes, that must be Kveykva. It belonged to Luca, Rider of Gretiem. They were a strong pair, human as he was. I would have liked to add them to my collection. Unfortunately, Luca and his dragon resisted my rule. They were of course killed, but Luca's sword was lost. Or at least, I thought it was.

"It seemed that Luca passed his sword down to his son before he died."

"What do you -?" Suddenly, comprehension dawned on Murtagh. "Of course."

"You understand correctly, Murtagh," Said Galbatorix. "Many years ago, Luca was the Lord of Furnost."

It all made sense now. It seemed that Teresa was the many-times great-granddaughter of a Dragon Rider. Remembering what Galbatorix had said, Murtagh, too, doubted that the Lord of Furnost didn't know. Though why he hadn't told his daughter the truth, Murtagh couldn't fathom.

"You will have to travel to Furnost to retrieve Kveykva, of course. That sword is rightfully mine, and I want it back," Galbatorix said. "The convoy bound for the southern cities departs in two days. I will expect you to accompany Teresa to Furnost and take back Kveykva."

"Why can't I fly? It would be much faster."

"It would, but I'm in no rush," said Galbatorix with a shrug. "At the moment, I'm rather more interested to see how you manage without my direct guidance. And I can see how good you are at following orders."

_ Brilliant_, Murtagh grumbled to himself. _Reduced to errand boy._ Then he had a flash of inspiration. "What if there are spies?" He demanded. "What if I'm recognized?" Murtagh tried to make his voice sound apprehensive rather than hopeful. He desperately wished that Galbatorix had not accounted for this. Since coming to Uru'baen, Murtagh had nursed a secret hope: if news of him could just reach the Varden, he could -

Galbatorix sighed heavily and rolled his eyes. "When are you going to stop trying, Murtagh?" he asked. "Trust me, it isn't worth the effort. As I have already told you, you belong to me. And besides, what makes you think the Varden's efforts are any nobler than mine? Their pathetic rebellion has caused the deaths of thousands already." He smirked. "Trust me, you would only be their pawn if you went back – just look at what has become of your brother. Even now, I suspect there are dozens of groups that seek to influence him. At least with me, you know where you stand."

Murtagh winced at the mention of Eragon, but he had to admit that Galbatorix had a point. If he were to be anyone's slave, he would prefer it to be to one single person.

The king continued before Murtagh could reply. "In response to your question, I have already made plans for that eventuality. I can alter your appearance so that no one will recognize you." He smirked. "Don't worry, Murtagh. Word of your continued existence will not reach the Varden. It will not even leave this palace."

"But then, why did you introduce me to your people last night?" Murtagh inquired."I thought I was supposed to be a secret."

"The courtiers invited to that party were either my trusted allies or people who needed…" he paused, choosing the right word, "_convincing_ of my authority. They were all spelled as they entered this room - once they return to their homes, they will be unable to speak of you to any but those who were also in attendance last night." Galbatorix pressed his already thin lips together in a tight line. "You will remain unknown to the Varden until the…opportune moment."

Murtagh shuddered. He hated when Galbatorix mentioned his actively fighting against Eragon and the Varden.

"Now, if that's all cleared up, I have something I wish to show you. Follow me." The king led Murtagh out of the dining hall and down a corridor to the left. After several minutes, they took another left into a narrower, windowless hallway. Murtagh followed the king past many closed doors and down a set of stone stairs to the very end of a long, dark corridor that was lit only by torches. With a sinking feeling, Murtagh realized where they must be.

"The dungeons," said Galbatorix. "Correct."

Murtagh had only ever seen the outside wall of the dungeons, because it was through that exit that he and Tornac had been able to escape Uru'baen. He had seen the corridor that led to the prison rooms, though. Murtagh wondered suddenly if Galbatorix was going to lock him in one of the tiny, filthy cells.

Imprisonment did not seem to be the king's intent, however. When they reached the heavy iron door that protected the only indoor entrance to the dungeons, Galbatorix signalled to the muscled, brutish guards. They let them both in without a word.

They found themselves in a round stone room lit with yet more torches. There were two possible paths now. Judging by the echoing screams and sobs that reverberated down the hall to their left, Murtagh assumed that that was where the prison cells and interrogation chambers lay. The path on the left was silent. Galbatorix strode swiftly down that hallway, and was a dozen steps ahead of Murtagh before he realized the king had moved at all. He had to jog to catch up.

The hall was growing steadily darker as the light from the round chamber fell further and further behind them. The stale air was hot and reeked of unwashed human and sewage. A light scuttling at Murtagh's feet: rats.

Galbatorix said nothing, but his pace quickened. Murtagh followed suit.

Just when he thought he could bear the stench and the heat no longer, they came to what appeared to be a blank black wall. It was so dark that it took Murtagh a moment to see the faint yellow light around the edges. It was not a wall after all, but a door.

As far as Murtagh could make out, there did not appear to be a handle, or even a keyhole.

It was only due to the light from behind the door that Murtagh was able to just make out Galbatorix lifting his hand. He heard the king mutter, "Ladrin," and the door swung inward.

Murtagh was stunned at what he saw. Instead of another dark, narrow corridor as he had expected, Murtagh found himself in a wide, well-lit chamber full of people. They were all large, burly men in full battle gear. At first, Murtagh did not realize that half of them were missing limbs.

Beside the wall stood a man with his left arm severed at the elbow. Blood spurted heavily out of the grisly wound. He was chatting animatedly with his companion, who appeared to be missing several of his fingers. Another soldier walked over to join them. He had a long, wicked gash down his leg from the hip to knee.

All around the room were men with similar injuries: This one's back had been slashed open horizontally. That one's arm stuck out at a bizarre angle. Several were missing eyes.

And yet, they were all talking and laughing, as if they hadn't a care in the world.

In the middle of it all stood the Twins.

When the two sorcerers noticed Galbatorix, they strode over and bowed together. They did not acknowledge Murtagh; indeed they acted as if he wasn't there at all.

"This is a project the Twins and I have been working on for some time now," explained Galbatorix "However, this will be the first time we have done any formal tests."

Murtagh could only stare around the room, utterly dumbstruck.

One of the Twins beckoned, and a hulking man appeared at their side. He had a wide, pockmarked face set with a lopsided mouth, and his nose appeared to have been broken at least twice. He had the fearless look of a man who had seen too many battlefields.

Galbatorix gestured to the man. "Aidan here has kindly volunteered to be one of the first to test my theory."

At Galbatorix's nod, Aidan yanked up the hem of his left sleeve to reveal several inches of bare, hairy forearm.

"Cut his hand off."

Murtagh staggered. "What?"

"You heard me."

Murtagh glanced uncertainly from Galbatorix to Aidan and back again. Neither said another word, until Galbatorix suddenly reached forward and smacked Murtagh about the face. Murtagh reeled at the force of the blow, but managed to stay on his feet. "Do it, Murtagh!" Galbatorix shouted. His voice echoed around the stone chamber, and several of the other men looked round. Some, having just noticed their king, attempted to make clumsy bows. Galbatorix ignored everyone but Murtagh.

Knowing there was nothing else he could do, Murtagh tugged Argedauth from his boot and brought the razor-sharp blade swiftly down onto Aidan's exposed wrist.

Murtagh brought his arm up just in time to protect his face from the hot spray of blood. There was a wet, sickening crunch followed by a muted thump as the severed appendage fell heavily to the floor, the thick, stubby fingers twitching for a moment before going still.

Aidan turned to Murtagh and grinned broadly, looking dazed but otherwise unhurt. He gave Murtagh a mocking, haphazard salute with the stump of his left arm, out of which blood still spurted.

It was perhaps the most horrifying thing Murtagh had ever seen.

And yet, it fascinated him.

"They do not feel pain," he wondered aloud. He had to commend Galbatorix for his ingenuity.

"Of course," responded Galbatorix. "If a soldier is wounded in battle, but not killed, he can go on fighting where before he would have fallen, incapacitated by the pain. I have left them with enough feeling for them to be able to function, but not enough that minor hurts will have an effect on them. It only works if the wound is not fatal, however." Galbatorix gestured to the far corner, and for the first time, he saw the pile of dead bodies: the failed experiments. One of their bellies was cut. There was a broken neck and a pierced heart, and another's head was cut off almost completely. It was attached to the dead man's body by only a few thin strands of skin and sinew.

Murtagh could still see some holes in Galbatorix's theory.

"You guessed right Murtagh," replied Galbatorix, reading Murtagh's thoughts. "If left unchecked long enough, the wound will haemorrhage and the soldier will die. Which reminds me." Galbatorix turned to where Aidan was still standing, and with a soft, "waise heill" and a wave of his hand, the skin on the stump of his arm sealed over and the bleeding stopped.

"I'm looking at ways of advancing the clotting of the blood," the king continued, " so that the wounds won't bleed as much. The Twins appear to be close to isolating the weakest point in the head. A few more months yet, perhaps, and they will be ready for use in battle. There is too the added," he paused, searching for the appropriate word, "_oomph _of seeing a man you thought you killed rising up from the dead and laughing as he slits your throat."

Murtagh shuddered. The whole concept was too disgusting, too unnatural, too _brilliant_, even to consider. He was suddenly reminded of something his teacher, Tornac, used to say: an army that's terrified out of their wits is an army that's as good as beaten. Galbatorix was applying the concept of fear to his advantage.

"Why do you do it?" Murtagh asked Aidan. "Why volunteer for this?"

"We were well paid fer it, yer lordship," the soldier responded. "His Majesty gave us enough gold to ensure our families' will be well-fed an' comfortable fer generations." He nodded to Galbatorix.

"But surely there are better ways of making money," Murtagh pointed out.

"There may be, yer lordship, sir, but this 'un's fast an' easy," replied Aidan. "We're retired soldiers, the lot of us. None of us suited fer farm work. Besides," he said, gazed bemusedly at his ruined arm. "Nobody really _needs _both hands, anyway."

* * *

A/N: I think I'm liking the adjustments so far. As my previous readers might notice, I deleted almost an entire chapter in here. Looking back, I realized it was completely unnecessary. Not sure why I put it in there in the first place.

- Miss Maddie


	23. Chapter 23

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 23

Murtagh appraised himself in the mirror. His hair, now sandy blond, was cropped short. His previously grey eyes had darkened to a deep navy blue, and his short beard didn't entirely hide his rather weak chin. Murtagh's nose was broader, his cheekbones more prominent. He had a full lower lip and a thin upper, and was an inch or two shorter and just a shade wider than he used to be.

"There," said Galbatorix, appraising his handiwork. "You're ready." Galbatorix circled around Murtagh like a vulture. "Let's go over your story once again, shall we? Your name?"

"Darian," replied Murtagh instantly, stating a name he had always liked.

"And a surname?"

Murtagh had not thought of that. After a moment's hesitation, he said, "Tornacsson."

Galbatorix raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

"I am the son of a rich fur-merchant from Ceunon, on an errand to Furnost," said Murtagh in a rush.

"Good. You are not to speak unless spoken to. You are not to reveal your true identity to Teresa until the convoy stops in Furnost, and you are to return immediately after you have retrieved my sword, is that clear?"

"Yes. And if Lord Hector should prove…noncompliant?"

Galbatorix smiled coldly. "Use your imagination."

Murtagh couldn't help but feel a bit nervous at that. "But - "

"Oh, do shut up, Murtagh," snapped Galbatorix. "Yes, I know what I'm doing; no, you will not be recognized; yes, you do have to get the sword and no, blond hair doesn't suit you at all."

Taking one last glance at Murtagh, Galbatorix snapped his fingers. The hair and beard which had just moments ago been the colour of a summer wheat-field were now as black as midnight. "Much better. _Now _you may go."

Murtagh nodded resolutely and hefted his pack on his shoulder. His clothes, weapons and road supplies were packed, and the southbound convoy would be leaving in an hour. He had already said his goodbyes to Thorn. The dragon was disappointed that he could not travel with Murtagh, but he knew of course that it was impossible.

Turning, he had taken but a few steps when Galbatorix called, "Oh, and Murtagh? Use the girl if you must, but don't get attached. I can't afford any distractions."

Murtagh could practically feel the king's smirk boring into his back, but he bit his tongue and did not turn back. His eyes on his boots, he swept out of the antechamber off the dining hall, through the main doors and into the wide hallway. It felt glorious to walk down the many corridors without having people gawk at him. He could go entirely unnoticed. It had not been so much the bows that unnerved Murtagh, but more so the whispers and the pointed stares that followed him wherever he went. Now, with his appearance altered and his gedwey ignasia concealed by fine leather gloves,Murtagh was just another nobleman.

When he arrived at the front doors of the castle, Murtagh had no trouble spotting the long line of carriages. Footmen were helping ladies in travelling skirts into the caravans while a few heavily armed guards stood, ready to leave.

As Murtagh approached, a liveried clerk caught him by the shoulder. "Where are you headed, sir?" the clerk asked politely.

"Furnost."

The man nodded. "Right this way." He led Murtagh to a carriage near the end of the line. Murtagh gave his scanty belongings, his pack and his weapons, to one of the guards, who strapped them to the top of the otherwise empty carriage.

"We'll be stopping in Evin's Mill for the night," said the clerk, naming a small loyalist village on the grassy plain between Uru'baen and Furnost. "We should reach Furnost around noon tomorrow."

Murtagh thanked the man and took a seat next to the window, where he waited.

It was not long before the carriage door opened and a lady in the deep red skirts of a travelling gown stepped through. Murtagh took her hand and helped her into the carriage. Teresa took the seat beside the door.

"Thank you, Master –?" said Teresa.

"It's no trouble T – my lady," replied Murtagh. For the briefest moment he forgot himself, and nearly addressed Teresa by her name. "And it's Darian. Just Darian."

Teresa's head snapped up, and she gazed at Murtagh, her eyes narrowed, as if she was trying to see something that wasn't there. Then, she shook her head and fixed her eyes on the floor of the carriage.

"Pardon me, my lady," said Murtagh. "But would you not like the seat by the window?"

"No, that's quite alright," she said. "I'm afraid sitting by a window while travelling does not agree at all with my stomach."

Murtagh ducked his head and gazed outside. The last of the stragglers had entered their respective carriages, and guards and footmen walked up and down the long line, making sure that the straps on the luggage racks were tight and the doors shut. It seemed that Teresa and Murtagh would be the only two going to Furnost. Murtagh didn't know whether to be nervous or relieved.

At last the carriage jolted into motion. The convoy set off down the cobblestone path slowly at first, and it was several minutes before Murtagh felt the carriage roll onto dirt. He could not see the palace anymore; the rolling plains and tall grasses seemed to stretch on forever. Murtagh stared out the window at the passing countryside and readied himself for a long, dull ride. Murtagh had never much liked travelling by carriage. He preferred to ride on horseback, and, more recently, dragonback. At least he had something to _do_, and he could smell the fresh air. In a carriage it was just sit on musty seats and let someone else do the work.

Murtagh and Teresa rode in stony silence for most of the afternoon. Murtagh even dozed off once or twice, resting his forehead against the windowpane. Finally, Teresa spoke. "I'm sorry, Master Darian," she said. "I'm not a very sociable travelling companion, am I? My stomach…" Teresa trailed off apologetically.

"That's quite alright, my lady," responded Murtagh. "I understand."

"It's not as bad now," Teresa said. "What brings you to Furnost?"

"Business," Murtagh responded immediately, just as he had practiced. _Not a lie, not a lie,_ he told himself. "I'm a fur trader from up north." _Dirty, stinking lie._

"Really? We get some lovely mink around Furnost," said Teresa. "But I'm afraid you're a few months late for peak season."

"Well, I'll be doing some research," said Murtagh, eager to steer the conversation away from a topic he knew next to nothing about. As he was casting around for a change of subject, a sudden jolt rocked the carriage. The bump was so hard that Murtagh had to grab the windowsill to keep from falling out of his seat.

"What was that?" Teresa asked.

"Wait here," said Murtagh. "I'll go and talk to the driver." Murtagh unbolted the carriage door and stuck his head outside. It looked as though their carriage had swerved and crashed into the one in front of it. "Excuse me," Murtagh called to the large man who held the reins, "but could you tell me what - ?"

But Murtagh's question was cut short by a sound that Murtagh knew only too well: it was the sound of an arrow whistling towards its target.

The arrow, fletched in wicked, inky black feathers, sprouted from the driver's eye. He reeled wildly and, with a cry of agony, toppled from the carriage, the horses' reins still clutched in his hand. His charges screamed in fright at the sudden fall of their master and reared. The front hooves of the horse on the left flailed madly and came down on the top of the fallen man's head, crushing his skull.

It all happened in less than a second, but in that time Murtagh was able to register the shouts of the caravan guards as they grimly drew their weapons, and the confused screams of the nobles inside the carriages. From the crest of the next hill, the answering calls of the enemy as it charged towards them were growing clearer.

Murtagh ducked back inside the carriage, narrowly avoiding a second volley of arrows. Teresa looked bewildered. "What's going on?" she demanded.

"Stay in the carriage!"

"But -!"

"Teresa, stay here!" Murtagh hauled himself to the top of the carriage and groped for his bow, but it was secured too tightly. He couldn't free it, and the longer he stayed in the open on top of the carriage, the longer he made a target of himself. Murtagh turned to his sword, giving it a hefty tug, and he was relieved to see that it came free without objection.

Leaping off the roof of the carriage, Murtagh rolled as he landed and came up on his feet. To his horror, the enemy were almost upon them. They had passed the hill and were advancing upon the convoy, shouting battle cries. Their number far surpassed the two dozen armed guards that travelled with the convoy.

The people in the carriages were screaming as the guards tried to keep them there. One of those guards tried to shove Murtagh back into his own carriage.

"Get off me," cried Murtagh angrily, "I can help!"

The guard shrugged. "It's your neck." He ran off to the front of the line, where their attackers had already hit. With a furious cry, Murtagh followed.

Forgetting that he wore no armour, not even chain mail, Murtagh charged forward, and was conscious of nothing but blind, unrelenting rage. He set upon the first man that attacked him, swinging his hand-and-a-half sword around in a deadly arc and beheading him. Murtagh gave himself over to the battle-lust that sprang to existence at the spray of the dead man's blood on his face.

Over and over again he slashed at his enemies. Many fell almost immediately, but just as many lived long enough to fight. Several times, Murtagh sustained small wounds.

In the heat of the day, it didn't take Murtagh long to start sweating heavily. For every man Murtagh killed, it seemed two more replaced him. On and on they came in an endless wave of death. Murtagh killed without thought, knowing only that these men must die.

Die.

_Wait a minute,_ thought Murtagh, _what am I doing?_ If he hadn't been in the middle of gutting his foe, Murtagh would have slapped a hand to his forehead. In the heat of battle, he had completely forgot about magic.

As his adversary fell, Murtagh risked a split-second to steel himself. Summoning his power, he raised his right hand and shouted, "Deyja!"

A wave of what felt like hot wind exploded out of Murtagh, knocking his breath away and raising a dense cloud of dust around him. When it cleared, he could see that the ten or so men that had surrounded him had collapsed, clutching their chests. Blood dripped from their noses and ears: their hearts had burst.

As his enemies died, Murtagh let their energy pour into him, strengthening him and banishing his fatigue. He raced forward, fuelled by a manic vigour that came from both killing and using magic. Murtagh slaughtered anyone who stood in his way with a sense of soulless detachment.

Murtagh's sword bit deeply into any that dared come near him, slitting throats and slicing bellies. He kicked their bodies out of his path and rushed ever on.

Vaguely, Murtagh then heard the sound of horns in the distance. At last, the enemy seemed to be retreating.

Suddenly, Murtagh felt a wave of sick dread wash over him. He knew those horns.

It was the Varden.


	24. Chapter 24

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 24

_Why?_

That was the only thought Murtagh had the strength to ponder as the battered convoy rolled into the village of Evin's Mill. The sun had set, and the sky was growing dark. _Why would the Varden do it?_

Murtagh couldn't understand what the Varden could possibly have to gain by attacking a convoy of nobles. They were not soldiers. They did not fight – the most they could do was provide funds for the Empire, and killing them wouldn't have changed that – Galbatorix would simply have made his other nobles pay more to cover the difference. The convoy hadn't been carrying supplies or riches; the most valuable items were the ladies' wardrobes. No one of real importance rode with them. These were helpless civilians. There was no reason for them to die.

And many of them had died. Less than half of their armed guard still lived. Many of the carriage drivers had been shot. Even a few of the nobles had been killed - they had done as Murtagh, rushing out of their carriages in a foolish attempt to be of some help. Most hadn't even carried weapons, and had been slaughtered in mere moments. Their lifeless bodies had been thrown with the others onto the hastily built funeral pyre. There had been no time for a proper burial.

The same had been done for the enemy dead, though many of the surviving people had wanted the bodies left to rot in the spring sun, devoured by the carrion crows. Though he, too, wished they could have left them, Murtagh knew that even enemy corpses must be disposed of properly. Rotting flesh bred disease, and in a tightly packed group of people, disease spread quickly.

As they piled the bodies to be burned, Murtagh had searched carefully for any faces he recognized, but could find none. As the dead burned, Murtagh noticed that their armour sported no insignia, and no flags smouldered alongside them. There could only be one reason for that: these were renegades, not the regular army. They were men of the Varden, there was no doubt of that, but Murtagh took heart in knowing that the mindless thievery of innocent life had not been ordered by their leader. Murtagh refused to believe that Nasuada had played any part in it.

Though Murtagh had escaped the attack without serious injury, he had received several small cuts, and one nasty gash along his left bicep. Too exhausted to heal himself by magic after the fight, Murtagh had allowed his arm to bandaged with a strip from someone's tunic.

He was not the only one. Several guards had been wounded, and required medical attention. It had taken the convoy several hours to regroup after the attack. Some carriages, like Murtagh's, had collided and broken. Many of the horses had been shot, rendering a great number of the carriages useless. The frazzled head clerk had hastily tried to fit people into new carriages, unpacking and re-packing the huge amount of luggage the nobles had brought with them. The nobles hardly made it easier, complaining about being over-crowded, some flat-out refusing to sit next to each other. In the end, the clerk had gone off on a furious tirade against one portly older man, telling him that, if he was unsatisfied with the seating arrangements, he could walk the rest of the way to Evin's Mill. The heavyset man had shut up after that, as had many of the others.

Due to the re-organization of the carriages, Murtagh did not sit with Teresa for the remainder of the voyage. She was up at the front of the convoy with several other noble ladies, while Murtagh had been stuffed into a carriage between a stick-thin older man so deaf that the head clerk had had to shout in his ear, and a young woman with an infant child clutched in her arms. The baby had squalled the entire way to Evin's Mill, leaving Murtagh with a pounding headache and no desire whatsoever to speak to anyone.

When they finally reached the village, it was plain from the first glance that it had been hit hard by the war. The women's plain, dirty dresses fell limp around frames that were far too thin. A few hollow-eyed children ran underfoot, but not nearly as many as there should have been. The village was almost entirely without men, the vast majority having been conscripted into Galbatorix's army. Every inhabitant had the hardened look of those who were living through a constant battle for survival.

Most of the nobles had been housed in the inn, the largest building in the village. Because it was situated on the main road leading from the capital to the southern reaches of the Empire, Evin's Mill was well used to travellers, though certainly not so many at once. The sturdy construction had a wood-shingled roof as opposed to the thatching of the rest of the village, and was reasonably well-furnished. Even the pickiest of nobles found nothing to complain about – they were all too exhausted to want anything but sleep.

The attic room that Murtagh had been given was tiny, hardly bigger than a closet, but he was pleased to discover that he shared it with no one else. A plate with two crusty rolls and a wedge of cheese waited for him on the bed. Lovelier still was the tub of steaming water that sat in one corner. Leaving his pack and his weapons on the straw mattress, Murtagh undressed and slid into the hot water with a contented sigh. He sat, his eyes half-closed, soaking the day's grime from his weary flesh.

The water had cooled considerably before Murtagh dragged himself from the bath and dressed for bed. As he slid between the cotton sheets, something caught his eye: the opal pommel of Argedauth, protruding from his right boot. After a moment's hesitation, Murtagh grabbed the dagger and slid it, blade-first, under his pillow.

It had been a long time since Murtagh had slept with a knife concealed somewhere in the bedclothes – not since he had been taken to Uru'baen. He had thought he was safe.

_ Well,_ Murtagh thought as his heavy eyelids drooped closed. _Out of the capital not even a day and already more has gone wrong than you could ever have imagined._

Murtagh fell asleep almost immediately, Argedauth clutched in his fist.

When Murtagh awoke to a sharp prod in his shoulder the next morning, he did the only natural thing. Quick as a flash he rolled out of bed, pulling Argedauth out from beneath his pillow in the same motion. In less time than it took for him to draw a breath, Murtagh had the intruder by his straw-coloured hair, Argedauth pressed to his pale throat.

_ Damned habits,_ he thought to himself when he saw who it was. _They never die. _To the serving-boy, he demanded, "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's bad luck to wake a sleeping man?"  
The serving-boy trembled in fear and alarm. "Don't got no mother, Lordship," he said in a rush, stumbling over the words in an attempt to get them out as fast as possible. "Only I reckon she would've, if she'd lived, so please, Lordship, don't be mad. Elias, the innkeeper, he said to wake all the noble folk. That clerk said you're to leave in an hour. And I brought you your breakfast, sir." Finally, the boy took a breath, and pointed to the buttered roll and apple on the bedside table. "Please, sir, don't be mad. I don't need no more bad luck."

Murtagh released the boy, who tumbled away from him and was at the door in an instant. "Go," he ordered.

Yawning, Murtagh pulled on fresh clothes and sat on the bed to eat his breakfast. Though he was sorry to have given the serving-boy such a scare, he was also relieved to know that his reflexes remained as sharp as ever, even after over a month of relative security.

When he finished the food, Murtagh packed his few belongings and descended the stairs to the common room. Halfway down the stairs, he caught sight of his reflection in a mirror. It gave him a start before he realized that the black-haired, blue-eyed man in the mirror was himself.

When Murtagh reached the common room, he found it empty except for the large, balding innkeeper, who was wiping the counter with a rag.

Murtagh took a seat in a corner booth, and as the minutes wore on, he realized he could have taken much more time getting ready. None of the other travellers were ready to leave_._ Murtagh sighed. He had forgotten how cursed _long _nobles took to get anything done.

It was a full half an hour before someone else entered the common room. Murtagh gulped when he saw who it was.

Teresa didn't see him as she stepped into the common room, wearing a travelling gown of russet red. Her gaze was set on the large window by the door. She took a seat next to it and stared outside, where the village of Evin's Mill was already bustling with activity.

Murtagh didn't know whether to go and greet her. In the end, he decided that it would be better simply to stay where he was. The less he actually spoke to Teresa, the less chance there would be of him revealing his secret before it was time.

A few minutes after Teresa arrived, the other nobles started to trickle in. It wasn't long before the steady drone of chatter filled the common room. The head clerk stood on a stool at the front of the room, trying to get them organized.

Seizing an opportunity to be of use, Murtagh helped the few guards that remained to load luggage onto the tops of the carriages. The head clerk had managed to barter a few more, and several horses, from the innkeeper, so their convoy wasn't as heavily laden as it had been.

Thankfully, the nobles were more cooperative than they had been the day before, and were ready to leave in record time. It was apparent that all they wanted was to get off the roads, away from the danger.

Murtagh didn't know whether to be grateful when he found himself once again alone with Teresa.

She greeted him cordially when he stepped into the carriage, though now that he saw her close-up, Teresa looked tired, as if she hadn't slept well. Murtagh returned her greeting. Remembering what she had said about her travelling sickness, he took the vacant seat by the window.

Neither Murtagh nor Teresa was keen to talk as the convoy rolled out of Evin's Mill and down the dusty road. Thankfully, the ride to Furnost would be much shorter than the one to the village had been. By late morning, the plain had already given way to grassy pastures, and Murtagh could see the pale grey-green of trees in the distance.

"That's the Silverwood Forest," said Teresa, speaking for the first time. She was pointing out the window in the direction of his gaze. "My home."

"It's beautiful," said Murtagh.

They sat together and watched for a moment as the forest approached. Then Teresa sat back in her seat, and looked fixedly at Murtagh. "There's something I've been meaning to ask you," she said finally.

"My lady?"

"Just before you locked me in the carriage" – she raised an eyebrow, but Murtagh refused to feel remorse. It had been for her own safety – "you called me by my name, which I don't remember ever telling you."

Murtagh's heart leaped into his mouth. He remembered it too, now: in the frenzy of impending battle, he had let her name slip out.

Teresa continued. "And while I was locked in the carriage, I saw you do something rather strange. You were surrounded by enemy men. I was terrified. Just when I thought I was going to have to watch you be killed, you raised your hand and said something. All the men around you just…died. Just like that." Teresa looked as if she still had trouble believing it. "It was the oddest thing I've ever seen, and I know what it was." She looked Murtagh dead in the eye, and he squirmed under her penetrating stare. "It was magic."

Murtagh sighed heavily. _I suppose now's as good a time as any_, he thought. Swallowing hard, he said, "My lady – Teresa, there is something I need to tell you. I'm not a fur-trader." He grinned humourlessly. "I've never even been to Ceunon. Galbatorix sent me to retrieve your Rider's sword."

Teresa didn't even blink. When she spoke, it was not a question. "Murtagh."

Unable to say anything else, Murtagh nodded. To his intense astonishment, Teresa reached forward smacked him hard on the shoulder.

"You – are – an – idiot!" she exclaimed, punctuating each word with a blow. Murtagh winced. They actually _hurt_. "I knew it! Why did you lie to me? Did you think I was stupid –?"

"Teresa –!"

" - That I wouldn't guess?"

"Teresa!" He said firmly, catching his slim wrist and holding her hand where it could not cause him bodily harm. "I told you before that the king would find out. He changed my appearance so I could travel without being recognized. I'm sorry for lying to you, but it needed to be done. There would be…" he swallowed, choosing his words carefully, "complications if I was discovered by the wrong people."

Still frowning, Teresa said, "Well, I suppose it doesn't matter now. You _were_ going to tell me eventually?"

"When we got to Furnost, yes. I really am sorry." Murtagh ducked his head awkwardly. He had always been terrible at apologies.

Teresa's expression softened a little. Suddenly, she leaned forward. Murtagh flinched, think wildly that perhaps she was going to hit him again, but she only gazed at him intently.

"Er, Teresa?" he said, a little uncomfortably. "What are you doing?"

"Be quiet for a second, please," she replied, still staring at him. "I'm looking for something." Teresa's eyes raked over Murtagh's face little by little, finally coming to meet his.

"There you are," Teresa said finally. "They're a different colour, but they're still yours."


	25. Chapter 25

Thorn and Misery - Chapter 25

As the carriage rolled along the cobbled path that led to Furnost's keep, it became immediately clear to Murtagh that the place had not been built as a fortress. The proper was modest in size and construction, really more of a large manor house than a castle. It was gracefully built of light grey stone and wood, nestled comfortably at the edge of a wide, well-kept lawn and backing onto the sweeping birch trees of the Silverwood Forest.

Despite the apparent peacefulness, well-armed guards stood at regular intervals along the ramparts of the curtain wall, their faces grim and their crossbows held at the ready.

Murtagh shifted in his seat in the horse-drawn carriage that had met them at town gates. He could see that many of Furnost's wide, glassed windows had been covered with sheets of wood, the hastily erected fortifications meant to protect against enemy arrow fire.

The gatekeeper surveyed the carriage carefully as it rolled under the iron portcullis, and let them pass with a nod.

"It seems well-guarded," Murtagh whispered to Teresa when they were clear of the gatehouse.

"My father had to pull men from the surrounding countryside to defend it," was her hushed reply. "There just weren't enough soldiers." She shrugged. "We're about as small as it gets, I'm afraid. The only reason there's a keep here at all is because the lake and the forest needed looking after."

Murtagh could see the sense in that. The Silverwood was the largest forest in the Empire, and it was even rumoured that the elves had once had an outpost there. Tudosten was second only to Leona Lake in size, and its southernmost shore was inside Surda's borders. Furnost's proximity to the Beor Mountains could not be forgotten either. In fact, Furnost was in such a favourable position that Murtagh was surprised a larger town had not flourished.

At last they reached a great set of wooden doors: the entrance to the Furnost proper. Teresa smiled widely; Murtagh could tell that she was glad to be home. She had been presented at the ball alongside all the other young nobles who had finished convent school. Though Murtagh had never kept a close interest in such things, he knew Teresa, like the other noblewomen, had been in Teirm since she was thirteen or fourteen. Now that he thought about it, Murtagh supposed that Teresa probably hadn't been home in years.

Murtagh found it hard to imagine Teresa of all people in a convent school, where girls went to learn how to be proper noble ladies, and younger sons could go if they wished to become scholars or priests. She didn't seem the type to be particularly interested in the fine arts of needlepoint and letter-writing.

The driver stopped the carriage with a quiet, "Whoa," and hopped down to lower a small stepladder for Teresa. Before he could get there, however, Teresa leaped from the carriage and threw herself into the arms of the man who stood waiting on the stone steps.

"Papa!" she cried, and hugged him fiercely.

The man who could only be Lord Hector of Furnost laughed, and held her close. "My girl! It's been far too long!" Lifting Teresa off her feet, he spun her around in a circle and set her down, embracing her once more.

Looking a tad put out, the carriage driver lowered the stepladder and gazed expectantly at Murtagh. Not wanting to intrude on the happy reunion, however, he hung back.

It was only then that Lord Hector noticed him. "I see we have a guest," he said, he deep voice slow and measured. He released Teresa and turned to face Murtagh. Now that he was closer, Murtagh saw that Lord Hector of Furnost was stocky and compact in build, shorter than him by about a head. His hair, more grey than sandy brown was cut short and close to his head, the top of which was beginning to bald. His pale blue eyes were deep-set and scored at the corners with wrinkles. Lord Hector's thin-lipped mouth was broad, and looked quick to smile. His tunic and hose, though somewhat rumpled, were spotlessly clean and of excellent make. "Forgive my daughter's exuberance, young master," he continued. Teresa's fair cheeks coloured slightly, but her bright smile did not wane. "How can I help you?"

"Good afternoon, Lord Hector," said Murtagh, stepping down from the carriage. My name is Murtagh." Though he had planned to use the false name, those plans had changed when Teresa had guessed his true identity. Still, he decided, at least for the moment, to drop his damning surname. "I come with a message from King Galbatorix."

"If this is about soldiers," said Lord Hector, suddenly looking a bit cross, "then you may inform his Majesty that I have already sent him all the troops I can spare. The war has touched here, he mustn't forget. We're stretched thin as it is, and I have my own people to protect."

"No, my lord," said Murtagh hurriedly. "It's nothing like that."

"Well then," replied Lord Hector, his slight frown vanishing, "would you not do us the pleasure, Master Murtagh, of joining us for lunch? Surely you would like to rest from the road. We can attend to your business afterwards."

"I appreciate your hospitality, sir," said Murtagh. "I'm afraid I can't stay long, but I won't deny that a meal would be most welcome."

"Excellent! Warren!" Lord Hector called through the door, and a servingman appeared. "Would you please take my daughter's belongings to her chambers? Master Murtagh, what would you like done with your effects? I can have a guest suite prepared for you, if you wish."

Murtagh shook his head. "There's no need for that, sir. I must return to the capital as soon as my business is complete. I'd as soon hold on to my belongings, if it's all the same to you."

"Certainly," replied Hector, "though I must ask that you leave your weapons here."

Murtagh's face darkened. He hated being separated from his weapons. Lord Hector caught Murtagh's look and gave him an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry to have to ask, but we have had many close calls of late. I can assure you that they will remain under adequate guard."

Murtagh nodded. Hefting his pack over his shoulder, he removed his bow and quiver and unclipped his hand-and-a-half sword from the baldric, laying them carefully on the floor. However, Murtagh would not go entirely unarmed. He kept the brace of wrist-knives that Galbatorix had given him – they remained strapped to his forearm, and his dagger was still tucked into his right boot

Teresa said nothing, though by the way her eyes followed his movements, he knew she remembered its presence. She seemed to understand his discomfort at being weaponless, and kept quiet as a servant took Murtagh's sword, bow and quiver.

Falling into step behind Hector and Teresa, Murtagh followed them past the oak doors. As they wound through the corridors, Murtagh could see that the inside of Furnost's keep was as simply elegant as its exterior. Well-made tapestries hung between the high windows, though the sheets of wood blocked the bright mid-day sun and left the hallways far darker than they should have been. Thick woollen rugs in deep shades of green and burgundy muffled their footsteps.

In time, they reached the dining hall. This room was brighter and airier than the corridors had been, and it took Murtagh only an instant to see why: the entire rear wall was a single enormous window, opening onto the Silverwood Forest. Its cut glass panes threw sparkling, multicoloured streaks of sunlight around the wide chamber, while the birch trees outside trembled in the slight breeze.

Though it was beautiful, Murtagh could see that such decoration was unwise in the present climate. The lord of Furnost had undoubtedly seen it too; ten feet of the window nearest the ground had been covered with sheets of wood like the others.

Lord Hector led them to a long table at the end of the hall, where two people were already seated. A pretty blonde woman that looked to be several years older than Teresa occupied the place to the right of the empty head chair. On her other side sat a thin man with curly brown hair and level hazel eyes. They stood as Murtagh, Hector and Teresa approached.

"May I present my eldest daughter, Charlotte, and her husband, Tobias?" said Lord Hector to Murtagh. To the pair, he said, "Master Murtagh comes to us with business from the capital."

The man, Tobias, bowed politely; the lady curtsied, though with some difficulty due to her belly, which was full and round with pregnancy. She straightened, and her husband helped her back into her seat.

Hector directed Murtagh to the seat on his left, while Teresa sat on his other side. After the servants had brought in a lunch of hearty chicken stew, fresh milk and crusty rolls slathered in butter, the Lord of Furnost cleared his throat.

"Forgive, me Master Murtagh, I am being discourteous. The journey was fair, I trust?"

Unsure as to exactly how to describe what had occurred, Murtagh glanced quickly at Teresa. The fleeting look was not lost on Lord Hector, whose blue eyes narrowed shrewdly.

"What?" he demanded, looking at his daughter, "Teresa, what happened?"

She hesitated, and then said, "There was an attack on the road yesterday. We were ambushed by a group of rebels."

Lord Hector clenched his fist tightly around his knife. Charlotte gasped, and Tobias laid a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Was anyone hurt?" Teresa's sister asked.

"A good number of the guards were killed, and some of the nobles," answered Murtagh.

"The nobles?" interjected Tobias suddenly. His voice, a pleasant baritone, was incredulous. "You don't mean to say they tried to help?"

Murtagh nodded grimly.

Tobias scowled. "The fools. They should have known -"

But Lord Hector cut him off. "It is unwise to speak ill of the dead, particularly those who died in such a manner." Turning to Murtagh, he asked, "what of the Varden?"

"They were dealt with. The survivors fled."

"You speak as though you took part in the fighting," Hector observed.

In response, Murtagh gave a noncommittal shrug. "I may have helped a little."

Lord Hector gazed at him thoughtfully but said nothing as servants returned and cleared away the dishes. Their meal finished, Charlotte and Tobias stood and took their leave. Murtagh was grateful that Teresa did not raise a fuss when, at a pointed look from her father, she did the same.

When they were alone, Lord Hector said, "Now, Master Murtagh, we may proceed to your business. What is it His Majesty requires?"

Murtagh swallowed, finding it suddenly difficult to look Lord Hector in the eye. Clearing his throat and staring at Hector's shoulder, Murtagh said, "It has come to King Galbatorix's attention that you have a Dragon Rider's sword in your possession."

Lord Hector's thin lips pressed into a tight line. He seemed to know what was coming. "Go on."

Taking a breath, Murtagh said, "He has ordered me to return the sword to Uru'baen, where it belongs."

Hector's blue eyes flashed in annoyance. He stood, his hands clenched in fists at his sides. "And you think it is your place to decide where my sword belongs?" he asked.

"I say only what His Majesty instructed me to," replied Murtagh, matching the steel in Lord Hector's words and rising in turn. He felt the irritation rise in him. Voice tight and frustration mounting, he said, "I was told return the king's sword to the capital, and I intend to do so. I know Kveykva is important to you, but I suggest you save yourself the trouble and do what His Majesty wants. Then I will leave you and your family in peace."

Lord Hector raised his hand. For a second Murtagh thought the man was going to strike him, but he only snapped his fingers. The footman who had taken Teresa's luggage appeared at his side. "Warren," said Hector tensely, "Return Master Murtagh to his effects. Then, go to the vaults and bring me the sword with the orange blade."

If the footman found the instructions or the manner of their parting at all peculiar, he held his tongue. With a bow, he led Murtagh out of the dining hall and into the long corridor. The doors swung closed behind them, but not before Murtagh caught a glimpse of Lord Hector sinking back into his chair at the head table, his shoulders shaking.

Murtagh's bow, quiver and sword were waiting for him when he and the footman arrived in the small room near Furnost's main entrance. As he slung the bow and quiver over his shoulder and secured the sword at his hip, Murtagh felt the discomfort that had followed him since he had been forced to abandon them wane. When he was unarmed, Murtagh felt as awkward as if he had left a limb behind.

Warren motioned to the chairs in front a tall window, half of which was covered with wood. "It may take some time to retrieve the sword, Master Murtagh. Please, make yourself comfortable."

Murtagh sank into the soft chair and sighed heavily. It had been an exhausting journey and now, as strange as it sounded, all he wanted was to get back to Uru'baen. More than anything, he wanted to be with Thorn. They had been separated for two days. Two long days of uncomfortable silence in the back of his mind, where he had long since become accustomed to feeling the dragon's presence. Though he and Thorn were always connected, that connection was far weaker when they were separated by such great distances, and they could not speak to one another.

Murtagh wanted to lie in the hay alongside Thorn's warm flank. He wanted to fly over the rolling hills surrounding the capital. As much as he hated the master of the house, and much of the company he kept, Murtagh wanted to go home, and be a Dragon Rider again.

As he stared out the high window at the pearly clouds that were gathering outside, Murtagh heard a soft knock at the door, and Teresa poked her head inside.

"I saw father," she said as she took the seat beside Murtagh. "I take it that didn't go well."

Murtagh laughed humourlessly. "You could say that."

"The last few months have been hard on him," said Teresa with a slight frown. "It seems like he worries constantly – the war, and the crops…he hides it well, but I think the strain is getting to him."

Murtagh looked up. "What's wrong with the crops?" he asked.

Teresa's frown deepened. "The king has called nearly all the men from the surrounding country to serve in his armies, even the farmers. Our fields have fallowed because there aren't enough people to plant and tend them. Last year, the harvest was so bad we had to buy grain from Surda."

Murtagh swallowed. Furnost was home to some of the most fertile farmland in the Empire. If their crops were failing, and this early in the season, it spelled disaster for the rest of the country as well. And yet, there had been no mention of it in the reports Galbatorix had had him read.

Teresa sighed heavily. "I think the attack yesterday made father see just how much this war is affecting us – not just Furnost, but all of the Empire. If the king needs men for his armies, we lose farmers and our crops wither and die. If our crops die, we need to buy food we can't afford. Our treasuries are sapped. Eventually, our people will starve."

Looking intently at Teresa, Murtagh was astounded at how much she thought. Hers were not the burdens of most of the young women he knew. While most noble ladies danced and flirted, Teresa cared about wars, weapons and failing crops. She saw how prolonged combat affected not only the soldiers, but also the people and the lives they left behind.

Choosing his words carefully, Murtagh asked, "How much do you know about the rebellion?"

"A little," Teresa answered. "They're called the Varden. They want to bring down King Galbatorix."

"And do you agree with them?"

Teresa blue eyes flashed. Her tone changed, becoming accusatory. "That's no casual inquiry, my lord Dragon Rider," she said, using his formal title for the first time since their meeting and throwing it in his face. "_If_ I answer, how much will reach His Majesty's ears?"

Murtagh ducked his head. "Point taken. But I'm curious."

Teresa chewed her lower lip, considering. When she spoke, it was slow and cautious. "I don't agree with everything the king does. It seems like he forgets about what happens to the rest of the country when his armies go to war. It's almost as though his people don't matter, as long as the rebellion is crushed. But then, if the rebels want his throne, I suppose he has every right to defend it." She stopped when she realized Murtagh was staring. "What?"

"You really understand this, don't you?" he said. "You could be a general. I'm serious!" he exclaimed at Teresa's blush. "I've met veteran soldiers who don't know reasoning and consequences of warfare half as well as you do."

"My father taught me everything I know," Teresa said proudly. "He is a brilliant military strategist."

"It sounds like he taught you well."

Teresa nodded. "He always wanted sons, but he got my sisters and me. He waited and waited, and then when Mama died…" she trailed off, her eyes downcast.

"What happened to her?" Murtagh asked.

"Childbirth," Teresa replied shortly. "She was never very strong, and he came so early…" she gazed sadly at him. "I had a baby brother for twenty-three minutes."

Murtagh gulped.

"That was when my father really started teaching me about weapons," Teresa continued. "He wanted all of us to learn, but my sisters never took to it like I did. I guess I just wanted to make Papa happy, and that's what did it."

"How many sisters do you have?"

"Three. Charlotte's the eldest. Then there's Vivian. She's betrothed to Merrick, the third son of Teirm. They'll be married come August."

"And what about your other sister?"

"Lydia" Teresa answered. The name seemed to leave an unsavoury taste in her mouth, and she frowned slightly. "She's only thirteen months older than me and hostile about it. I don't see her much – she spends most of her time at court." Suddenly, the corners of her mouth turned upwards in a wicked grin. "But I think you had the pleasure of meeting her sister-in-law – a certain _giggling_ friend of yours?"

Murtagh blanched. "You're related to _Bethany_?"

"Only by marriage, so don't hold it against me. Lucky for me, Lydia's end of the family hates coming here – apparently it isn't grand enough for her, but it suits me fine."

Just then, there was another soft knock at the door. A maid entered and said, "Excuse me, my lady, but your sister wishes to speak with you."

"Thank you, Ilane," replied Teresa. "I'll be along in a minute."

With a curtsy, the maid disappeared.

Teresa stood, smoothing the front of her dress. Murtagh, too, rose.

"I should go," she said quietly, her gaze trained on the floor. "If I don't see you again…" Suddenly, she leaned forward and kissed him swiftly on the cheek. "Goodbye, Murtagh."

Going scarlet, Teresa turned, pushed open the door and fled.

Murtagh slumped back into his armchair, utterly bewildered.


End file.
